


A Terrible Spy

by Cicerothewriter



Series: A Terrible Spy [1]
Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Espionage, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Slash, Suicide, Violence, World War I, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-10
Updated: 2012-08-10
Packaged: 2017-11-11 21:11:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 24,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cicerothewriter/pseuds/Cicerothewriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just when Hastings is about to consummate his new relationship with Poirot, everything goes wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note 1: Inspired by some of Hugh Fraser's other roles and by Carl Hans Lody.
> 
> Note 2: Thanks to Foofarah for reading the first few pages and telling me I wasn't being stupid. Thanks to Soul_bonnie for betaing my English, whipping into shape my German, and helping me with suitable German places and names. This story is much improved because of her hard work. Thanks to my LJ friends for typo catches and cheerleading.
> 
> Note 3: I could not tell the whole story from Hastings' perspective, and so the POV switches between Hastings and the 3rd person.

Perhaps it was the taste of tisane or the stiff press of his moustache against my upper lip, but I gradually came to the realization that I was kissing Hercule Poirot, and perhaps more importantly, he was returning my kiss. Neither of us wished to submit, and so we fought for control. I had the upper hand, being taller than him and the one who finally initiated our first kiss, and after pushing Poirot against the wall, I won the battle. He moaned softly as he yielded, and I pushed deeper, kissing him harder, only pulling back when we both needed air. We panted softly against each other's lips, trading soft kisses and gentle bites. I kissed him passionately again, thrilled that he yielded so quickly, for I knew that if he trusted me with his vulnerability, I could trust him with mine.

" _Mon ami_ ," he murmured, his eyes nearly black with pleasure. I cupped his cheek tenderly with my hand.

"Yes?" I murmured in response, pressing a gentle kiss to his brow.

His eyes closed, and I could feel how much he wanted me. Our chests brushed against each other's as we breathed. I admired the slash of dark lash flutter against his cheek.

"You chose an inopportune time to make love to me, Hastings," Poirot said, kissing me gently before pushing me back. I let him go, and he smoothed down the sleeves of his jacket. We were both dressed in white tie and tails, but alas we were bound for different destinations.

"I could not help myself, Poirot," I replied, kissing his cheek lightly. "You look so handsome."

"I wish you, not Madame Dubois, were on my arm tonight," Poirot replied, and the jealousy that had been in my chest melted away.

"Tomorrow, then?" I said, stroking a fond hand down his chest, ostensibly to smooth down the wrinkles.

Poirot shivered, and said, "Tomorrow."

We said a reluctant goodbye. After completing an errand, and then dropping off a package at the post office, I went to my club for a few hours. However, my club was nothing compared to the arms of Hercule Poirot, and I returned to my lonely flat and spent the night immersed in thoughts of pleasure.

 

The next day I arrived at Poirot's flat, a peculiar sense of excitement driving my steps. I had every hope that today would end in a most pleasant manner; however, Poirot seemed a bit out of sorts, and I shared a concerned look with Ms. Lemon.

"Poirot?" I asked, coming closer to his desk.

He looked up at me, and I could not describe the emotion in his eyes. He smiled, and the moment was lost. "Good afternoon, Hastings."

"Good afternoon," I replied, resting a hand on his shoulder briefly. "What has you so worried?"

"Inspector Japp called this morning," Poirot replied. "Albrecht Bosch, the man we were looking for, was found dead last night."

"Last night?" I asked. "Bosch was the man whom you wished to question about the missing papers, wasn't he?"

Poirot nodded. "I had meant to find him last night, but alas, I did not."

I let out the breath I had been holding. "I’m glad, old thing. Whoever killed him wouldn't have hesitated to kill you, too." I shuddered to think what might have happened had Poirot found the man.

I busied myself with the morning's paper, but rather than read I contemplated the events of the previous night – more specifically, the lovely kisses which Poirot and I had exchanged. I was planning a way to introduce the topic when there was a knock on the door. Ms. Lemon answered it, and Inspector Japp entered the sitting room. I stood to greet the inspector, the paper folded in my hand. I assumed that Japp would not stay long.

"Good afternoon, Poirot, Hastings," he said, his eyes lingering on me. I felt uneasy at his glance, and wondered what was wrong.

"Have you any leads on the killer of Mr. Bosch, Inspector Japp?" Poirot asked.

"Yes," Japp said slowly. Ms. Lemon entered the room, Poirot's afternoon tea in her hand.

Japp turned to me. I did not like the look in Japp's eyes; I had seen that look before. "Where were you last night, Captain Hastings?"

"Where was I? What do I have to do with this?"

"Please answer the question, captain."

I could feel the tension in the room rise, and I hated that Ms. Lemon was here to witness this. "I was at my club last night. The others will vouch for me."

"We've already spoken to those who were there last night. They said you did not arrive until nearly ten in the evening."

"Well, yes, I had some errands."

"What sort of errands?"

"The post."

"So late in the evening?"

"I did not have the chance before then," I replied.

"And you were never near V-- St?"

"No," I replied, willing my hand to relax where it was clutching the paper.

"That's very interesting because I have a witness who places to you there."

"A witness?" I said, surprised.

"Yes." Japp's jaw clenched, and I could see the hurt betrayal in his eyes. "He recognized you from the photograph on my desk."

It was a photograph of Japp, Poirot, and myself on the day Japp received a second official commendation for his services to London. "Your witness is wrong," I replied. "He is trying to trick you."

Softly, startling all of us, Poirot said, "No- no, your witness is correct."

My breath caught in my chest. Poirot was looking down at the floor, but when he raised his eyes, I could see the anger, and I must admit that I quailed a bit.

"I followed M. Bosch to that address, and I saw…"

"There… there… must be a mistake," I replied, my limp fingers dropping the paper to the ground.

"Please come with me, Captain Hastings," Japp said, taking my arm.

"Yes, of course," I replied. "I'm sure that this has all been a misunderstanding."

The narrow hall was blocked by two policemen standing just the right distance apart. I reached for my hat and coat, and then elbowed the closest one in the back just under his ribcage. He groaned, and bent over. I pushed him hard into Japp. The other I felled with one blow to the face, and then I ran out of the room, the echo of Ms. Lemon's scream in my ears.

 

Having spent many years as Poirot's companion meant that I had seen the police in action countless times. I knew exactly what mistakes they made and what would alert them immediately. I escaped with no further hindrance, although there had been two more policemen outside. I was a bit annoyed that Japp had thought only two officers would be enough to apprehend me.

I took refuge in a little used flat near Waterloo Station. It was small and uncomfortable, but I had few alternatives. I could not return to my apartment or to the bolt-hole I utilized often when on an assignment. While I waited for night to fall, I thought about the events of the previous night.

I had departed from Poirot's flat, still feeling the effects of our embrace. Despite the pleasantness of my mood, I was aware that I had a job to do that night, and I needed to continue as planned. Heaven help me if Poirot got to Bosch first.

The place where we met was a rundown warehouse, a bit too typical but then Bosch was not a very imaginative spy. Perhaps my mistake was expecting Bosch to have canvassed the building thoroughly before I arrived. I let my distraction and my haste rule my actions.

" _Sie sind früh dran_ ," Bosch said softly. ["You are early."]

" _Ich will diese Sache so bald wie möglich erledigt haben_ ," I replied. ["I wish to have this business over and done with as soon as possible."]

" _Warum? Haben Sie etwas noch vor?_ " he said, his mouth twisted in a cruel sneer. ["Why? Do you have any plans?"] I hated Bosch; he represented what I despised about the new regime. His cruelty, his cunning stupidity, his lust for power.

" _Mich von ihrem Anblick erholen_ ," I replied. ["Recovering from the sight of you."] He laughed, and tossed to me a brown envelope. I removed the papers, and leafed through them quickly. "Ist das alles?" I asked, marveling at some of the names I saw. All innocent names… ["Is this all of it?"]

" _Ja! Und jetzt verschwinden Sie!_ " he replied, turning away from me. ["Yes! And now get out of here!"]

The soft snick seemed to echo in the quiet of the warehouse. I heard the surprised breath stop in Bosch's throat, and watched with some satisfaction as he fell forward. I checked his pulse; he was dead. I pocketed my silencer and my revolver.

I then checked his pockets for anything of interest, and found some more information that he had stolen. It was not information requested by our handler, and so I wonder to which other country he had intended to sell this information. I could see that the plans were of a submarine, but beyond the obvious I could not discern further information.

I put the papers safely back in the envelope, and put that in an inner pocket. I then smoothed down my overcoat, and left the warehouse.

 

Late in the evening I returned, pleased to see that there were no policemen around. I was well aware that it was a trap, but I had to see Poirot one last time. I was furious with him, but I also understood why his upright sense of justice forced him to turn me in. I hated that he had seen the events of last night; I hated that I had been so careless. I hated what I was about to do.

I waited until nearly two in the morning before I entered Poirot's flat. I was surprised to find him asleep on the couch, propped up in what looked like an uncomfortable position. A quick search of the flat revealed no hidden policemen and no visible bugs. I returned to the sitting room, and pointed my gun at Poirot's head.

I could see Poirot's eyes moving under their eyelids, and I knew he would wake soon. I cocked the gun, letting the noise bring him from sleep. His eyes opened, and he inhaled sharply when he saw me standing before him.

"What is the signal?" I asked.

"The signal?" he asked in apparent confusion.

"Yes, for when you let the police know that I have arrived. This is a trap, isn't it?"

"Why do you not shoot me?" he said, his eyes on the gun.

"I wish to talk with you first," I answered. I felt the betrayal well within me, and for a moment I hated the man who held my heart.

"I do not converse with the sort of man who shoots another in the back," Poirot said sharply, standing up to face me.

"You know nothing of the matter," I said, a snarl in my voice. Poirot seemed surprised, and stood back a bit. "You know nothing of me, you little Belgian fool. We have been friends for two decades, and all you really know about me is that I like golf and automobiles."

I resisted the urge to say anything more. I knew that Poirot was very good at encouraging others to talk, both witnesses and suspects alike, and I did not wish to put myself in a class with them.

"Tell me then, Hastings," Poirot said, his beautiful voice icy with anger. "Why would an honorable man shoot another in the back? Why would he live a lie? Why would he seduce another under false pretences?"

"Because it is my occupation, Poirot," I replied, stepping nearer to him. "Surely you can deduce that from what you saw last night."

"It is true then. You are a spy. How can you betray your country, Hastings?" Poirot seemed earnest in his question, and I reached up to caress his cheek.

"But I am not betraying my country," I said. "Not _my_ country at all."

I could see the moment when Poirot fully recognized my meaning. The fear in his eyes I understood, but I was taken aback by the fascinated horror.

"Why did you have to meddle, Poirot? We could have continued on as we always had been. We should be making love tonight, not waiting for me to pull this trigger."

Poirot trembled against me; I adored the pleasure, and I hated the fear.

I knew that the best solution was to shoot him – to gain revenge for his betrayal and to protect my identity – but I loved my honorable little Belgian too much to hurt him. I could not punish him for acting as befit his character, a character which I admired greatly. I kissed him gently, making it as sweet and loving a kiss as I could. It was a goodbye kiss for I heard the clomping of shoes in the hallway.

I turned away from Poirot, and as the door swung open, I raised my pistol to my chin.

 

My career as a spy started when I was still a young man. I cannot say that I was an exceptionally bright pupil, but I excelled at languages. My half-English blood ensured that I had many of the characteristics of a British gentleman, and my mother's influence meant that I spoke the King's English as well as any native.

As I considered my career path, I had little desire to continue as my father had done and become a professor. I longed for adventure and travel to new, exotic places; a friend introduced me to a captain from the Abteilung Illb, and it was determined that my language skills and my ability to pass as an Englishman were valuable qualities.

My parents, however, were less than pleased by my new career. My mother especially disliked the danger in which I would be and also that I would spy on her native country. I fear that my actions caused some unpleasant friction between my parents, who were otherwise happy in their marriage. I pled with my mother, and promised that I would do nothing to harm her country.

Despite my training I was quite the naïve young man. I travelled and explored, and I did send back information. My handler sent me to England in order to practice blending in, and then overseas to the Americas. When I returned to Europe, he sent me to Belgium, where I met Hercule Poirot.

 

Before I could continue my plan, I felt Poirot land hard on my back. The wind was knocked out of me, and the gun tumbled just far enough out of my reach as to be useless. Rough hands grabbed me, and pulled me up. I struggled, and my arms were pulled tighter. I felt the irons lock around my wrists.

Japp had helped Poirot to his feet, and they both looked at me. "Take him away," Japp said.

"They'll hang me now," I said to Poirot, and felt a selfish satisfaction when he flinched.

 

Poirot and I had interviewed countless suspects in the solitary rooms at the gaol, but I never thought that I would be the one within. I was interrogated by Japp and another man who identified himself as a representative from the Home Office. I refused to offer them any answers.

Their understandable hostility unnerved me, and I ate and slept less, unable to calm myself. I wished that whatever they were going to do would happen soon. I knew my fate would be death by hanging, and my only wish was to see my father one more time before I died.

Poirot arrived on the second day following my arrest. I had maintained a veneer of calm up until this point, but his presence unsettled me. I could not imagine why Poirot would wish to speak to me now after so much time had passed; perhaps Japp asked him for assistance.

Japp spoke first. "We've searched your flat, Hastings, and found nothing. Now I know that you have a bolt-hole somewhere – someplace where you do your little spying –"

I glared at him in response to his implied slight at my ability. I had remained undetected for well over thirty years, so there was no need for him to be cocky just because he had caught me.

"You've got nothing to lose now. Just tell us where it is."

"If I had a bolt-hole, inspector, then I would gain nothing by telling you."

Japp rolled his eyes. "You're still pretending that we haven't caught you red-handed? Why?"

I merely stared at him. I found that this unnerved others because they were used to my constant chatter. Amid constant chatter, the other party would miss any slight slips or misplaced words. The problem with my silence was that now they would parse every single word I said. Still, it was fun to give Japp the runaround.

Poirot raised his hand slightly, and Japp stepped back a bit to let him speak. I tried not to let my nerves show, but Poirot's brown eyes were upon me, making me shiver inwardly.

"Inspector Japp found nothing of interest, but I found something quite curious," Poirot said.

Carefully from his inside pocket he produced a slender envelop, and what he pulled from it made me stiffen with alarm. Japp was obviously curious, and so I knew that Poirot had not shared this find with him. Poirot opened the leather, and turned the photo around so that we could see the inside.

It was a picture of my parents.

"This is not the Mr. and Mrs. Hastings whose pictures reside so haphazardly in your sitting room, _mon ami_ ," Poirot said, his voice soft but sharp. Thankfully he seemed to understand the care I had taken with the photograph. Even hidden it was wrapped in several white tissue paper. I had kept it with me despite its presence being a danger.

I remained silent, but I could not stop my trembling. My parents had feared this eventuality, and had begged me to leave.

"Do you have any siblings, _mein Herr_?" Poirot said, his words chosen with obvious care. At Japp's swift look, Poirot added, "The back of the photograph has a stamp in German. Someone had it almost neatly erased."

I sighed, and closed my eyes. "You're a German?" Japp said softly, the incredulity in his voice almost amusing.

"I believe, chief inspector," Poirot said, "that our friend here has at least some English blood in him."

Poirot and I stared at each other. Many times previously I had so dearly wanted to tell him about my parents. "My mother," I murmured, lowering my eyes.

"And you betrayed her?" Japp asked, his voice forceful and intimidating.

"I did nothing of the sort!" I cried, cut deep by the question which I had often asked myself. "She married my father, who was German, and she loved him! She loved Germany, and she did not like being forced to choose sides."

I realized that I had said more than I intended, and I sat back in my chair, hands clasped in my lap.

"Where are your parents now?" Japp asked.

I debated whether or not I should answer his question, and finally I decided that my answer would not change my fate one way or the other. "My mother is dead," I answered. The words hurt to say. "She died of Spanish Flu just after the war." I had been unable to reach her side in time, and she died before I could say goodbye.

Poirot looked troubled rather than triumphant after his success, and for that I was grateful. I did not need him to gloat while I remembered my dear mother's death. "And your father, where is he?" Poirot asked.

"In Germany," I replied with a finality to my tone that suggested I would give him no more information.

"Where in Germany?" he asked.

I pinched my mouth, and refused to speak. Poirot stared at me for a few moments, and I felt a twinge of shame at his anger. It was just as well that I never entrusted these facts to Poirot because it would have precipitated the loss of his regard sooner.

Poirot turned to Japp, and said, "I have done all I can for today." They both left, sparing not another glance in my direction.

Two constables returned me to my cell.

 

On the following day Poirot came to visit me. I admired his impeccable style, which I had always found attractive. Now, however, I was obvious to the fact that I had not had a proper bath since my incarceration and had little to change into apart from a couple of shirts and other necessities. I hated looking so dowdy next to my handsome friend. It also put me at a disadvantage.

"Good morning, Poirot," I said, not bothering to stand from my lounging position on the cot.

"It is the afternoon," Poirot replied, removing his hat.

"My apologies," I replied, "but time has little meaning inside this place." Poirot watched me silently, and I began to grow uneasy. "What do you want?" I asked.

"The police are trying to retrace your steps," he said eventually. "They wish to know exactly where you went in the hopes that you visited your hidden evidence."

"They are on the wrong track," I replied, sitting up on the cot. "I did not visit my 'secret lair' that night."

"I thought as much," Poirot replied. "Even you, Hastings, would not make that mistake." He smiled as I bristled, but then his expression became serious. "But then I realized that I did not know you at all. I thought that I knew Hastings quite well indeed, and at one time I wished to know him intimately, but I do not know _you_. You, who would shoot an unarmed man from behind; who would pretend to be another and spy for an enemy." His voice gradually hardened with anger as he spoke.

I realized that I had nothing to lose in revealing myself to him. "I did not hide myself from you, Poirot, merely my actions." Poirot shook his head, but I continued, "Albrecht Bosch may have been unarmed, but he is hardly worth your sympathy. He was the agent sent on missions where the killing of women and children were necessary… and just as often when it was merely an option. He enjoyed it."

"Why did you kill him?" Poirot asked.

"I was ordered to," I replied. "He had sold German intelligence to the Italians."

Poirot looked uneasy, and I let my frustration guide my tongue. "I serve my country when it asks me to do so, Poirot. I have lived more than half my life in a foreign land with one of my few reasons for doing so being my country… and you."

Poirot glanced at me, and I said, "Yes, I did not need to stay in Britain once the war was over, but I stayed because I wished to remain by your side."

"And you did not spy while you were by my side?" he asked, his voice full of scorn.

"Of course I still worked for my country, but my orders were changed. It would have been too suspicious for me to report on affairs in London. I reported on the affairs of other countries."

"From your ranch in the Argentine?"

I shook my head. "There is no ranch. Thankfully I was in the country when you arrived for your surprise visit. When the militia seized you, it was my intervention that prevented you from being executed."

"You lied to me," Poirot said, "even then."

"I had to, Poirot," I replied. "If I had told you even a little bit of the truth, you would have figured out the rest. I wanted to tell you so much about my parents, not the awful British ones who hated each other, but my mother and father who loved each other dearly."

Poirot snapped at me with a caustic, " _Non! Non, non, non!_ I believe that you are still lying to me, even now! You seek to gain my sympathy, but you will not. You pulled the wool over Poirot's eyes, but you will not do so again."

I sat quietly during his tirade, taking in every word. I knew that I deserved them; I knew that there was no hope to gain his sympathy. Because I still loved him, I would give him his dignity, and say no more.

" _Dieu merci_ that I did not succumb to your false nature and charms before I discovered the truth." With that parting shot, he knocked on the door to be let out.

 

I hated Pierre from the first day I met him; I would have disliked him had I not known that he was Poirot's lover. An aristocratic Frenchman through and through, he looked down upon those he deemed of less worth than him. If he had treated Poirot in such a manner, I would not have stood for it, but he worshiped Poirot as much as a man who loves himself so much could.

Pierre hated me as well. I think he knew how much I loved Poirot, and he took great delight in alluding to my dowdy and boring English qualities. He once asked me – while Poirot was away, of course – whether an Englishman felt any passion at all.

I realized very early on that Pierre and Poirot were lovers, and I waited for one or the other to move on so that I could declare myself to Poirot. Instead, their affair continued in an offhand manner. They would sometimes go for months without seeing each other, and I could not understand this. I disliked being away from Poirot for not only did I love him desperately, but I also enjoyed his company. How could they stand to be parted and for so long?

My work certainly kept me busy, and I travelled extensively. Eventually my wait turned into a silent vigil. I learned to hide my love so much so that I sometimes forgot. I would see a beautiful woman or a handsome man, and my cover required that I at least flirt with the women, but my heart would ache if I tried to make love with another, and I soon gave up hope of anything more than a casual flirtation.

 

One day I woke to the shocking thought that I was getting older. I had managed to survive two decades as a spy, and that was quite an accomplishment in its own right. I felt a curious sense of urgency. If my luck were to run out, I did not want to die without at least telling Poirot of my sincere regard for him. 

I held this urgency firmly in my mind as I travelled back to England, but I had little idea how I would broach the subject. A sudden declaration would be inelegant, and I did not wish for Poirot to think little of my emotions.

Luck was with me once more for just after I returned to Poirot's flat (and his hearty insistence that I should stay with him), Poirot received a client. This is in itself not unusual for Poirot often received interesting clients as soon as I return, a fact upon which he has commented many times, but this client was a man whom I had known intimately during the war. In fact, I had been assigned to extract information from him.

Captain Moore was surprised to see me, and he shook my hand for perhaps a little longer than was necessary. He was still a handsome man, but there was a tragic air about him that unsettled me. He discussed with Poirot his concern over the disappearance of some papers from the consulate where he worked. After their discussion, Captain Moore invited me to his home for dinner, and I accepted with some reluctance.

Poirot was obviously curious, and I was pleased that this would be the opportunity for which I had been looking.

"You knew Captain Moore before this, Hastings?" Poirot asked.

"Yes, I knew him," I said, glancing at Poirot. His head tilted to the side slightly. "We were lovers during the war," I continued.

I found the subtle shifts in Poirot's face intriguing, and I did not know what to make of them all. His expression showed surprise, jealousy, and perhaps a hint of ruefulness.

"I had not the clue," Poirot replied, stepping closer to me.

"No one was supposed to know," I replied. For a moment I could smell the cigarette smoke and the heady musk of sex mingled together. "The war was difficult. We took comfort where we could. I didn't know that he was married until later." 

Of course, the story was more complex than that. I had been sent in order to mine him for information; I knew very well that he was married, and although I accepted my orders, I found that aspect distasteful. Captain Moore was the sort who appreciated slender, youthful men, and on top of this he had a weak spot for shyness. He had been an enthusiastic lover, and I had enjoyed my time with him. While his inability to keep quiet about military secrets was a detriment to his career, he had been a kind gentleman, and had not done me a turn wrong. Nevertheless I was relieved when I was transferred after my injury.

"Did he deceive you?" Poirot asked, and I was inwardly amused by his desire to fight for my honor.

"No, he just did not think it worth mentioning until long after. I took it for granted that an honorable man would not behave in such a way. My-" I stopped abruptly. My parents had been faithful to the end, and even now my father kept my mother in his memories and close to his heart, but Hastings' parents had been cold to each other and to their children. It was a story designed to touch the heart of most upper-class British men and women.

"My parents were not a good example for me," I said, resisting the urge to cross my fingers as I told this lie. Never did I wish to tell Poirot so earnestly about my real parents and my life before him. In my most cherished fantasies he would forgive me and love me as I was. I did not enjoy deceiving him.

"I apologize if his presence brought back painful memories, _mon ami_ ," Poirot said, resting a hand on my arm. "When did the affair end?"

I did not have to fake my blush. "After my stay at Styles," I replied, looking down. Poirot's fingers tightened on my arm.

"Why did you not say so?" Poirot asked, after a heavy pause.

"I did not know how you would respond," I replied. "When we resumed our friendship after the war, I wanted to say something but then you revealed that you were engaged in a love affair with Pierre. I did not wish to cause distress to anyone."

"Your sense of honor is admirable," Poirot said, and I could hear the dissatisfaction in his voice. "And you tell me now because-"

"Because we are friends, and I trust you," I answered, resting my hand over his where it still held my arm.

 

I accepted Captain Moore's invitation because it would have looked odd had I not done so. My time spent in his company, however, was quite disappointing. He had been a good-natured, intelligent man when I knew him, but he was now sad and lonely. He complained that his wife no longer loved him and that she did not understand what he had been through. When he put his hand on my leg and asked for my intimate company, I shook my head, and gently removed his hand.

Guilt ate away at me that night, and I forgot that I had agreed to visit Poirot after my dinner with Captain Moore. I knew that my actions were in part the reason why the captain's career had declined and why he had lost the trust of his wife.

I went to visit Poirot the next day, and apologized for my forgetfulness. Poirot was angry, and he corrected my assumption that he required my presence.

I read the paper, letting him calm down a bit before I tried again; I would get nowhere with him in one of his moods. Ms. Lemon had taken dictation, and was beginning her typing, so I knew that we would not be disturbed. Poirot was straightening the ornaments on the fireplace mantel. I decided that boldness would be more useful than timid apology.

I stepped behind Poirot – so close that my front brushed against his back – and rested my hands on his hips, letting my fingertips curl slightly around his front. His actions ceased abruptly, and I could feel his breath catch. I leaned forward so that my lips barely brushed his earlobe.

"You have come to the wrong conclusion, Hercule Poirot. I did not spend the night in Captain Moore's embrace."

"You did not?" Poirot asked, his lips pinched together in a prissy manner.

"No," I replied, enjoying the feel of his breath and heartbeat quickening. "He offered, but I declined."

Poirot gazed at me in the mirror, and my heart melted as his vulnerable expression. "Why did you refuse?" he asked.

"You know why," I answered, sliding my hands from his hips to rest on his upper arms. I found him irresistible when he wore only his shirtsleeves, and I squeezed his arms slightly. "You already know," I added before I stepped away.

He turned to face me, and I delighted in the evidence of passion I saw. He raised his hand to my cheek, and I leaned into his touch.

"My apologies for doubting you, _mon ami_ ," Poirot said.

Ms. Lemon's typewriter stopped, and we would have to end our conversation soon or else risk exposure. I took his hand from my cheek, and kissed it gently.

"Even if you did not know, Poirot, I would not have accepted his offer. He was married… and you might as well be." I wanted to bring to his attention the presence of Pierre. While I could hope that Pierre would disappear, I knew that this would be difficult. They had been lovers for too long.

Poirot nodded, and by unspoken agreement we stepped back. Our relationship was at an impasse, but as I had already waited two decades, I could be patient a little longer.

 

I sat for a time in silence. The constable brought dinner, but I waved it away. I could not tolerate it. When breakfast came, the constable stood over me as I tried to eat, but my stomach rejected it. For lunch, the constable asked if I could eat rather than waste food. Japp came to ask me more questions, but I refused to answer. From his questions, I could tell that Poirot had repeated at least some of what I had said.

By the time night had come, I was no longer prepared to wait for British justice to hang me. They had been rather stupid to leave me with so many things suitable for the job. I removed my tie and fashioned it into a tight noose. I looked at the pattern; this tie – with its green leaf motif – had been given to me by Poirot and as such had been a favorite. I waited until the guard checked on me one last time for the evening, and then using the frame of the bed, I leant forward until gravity did the work for me. Jerking my hand, I knocked the chair onto my back, adding more weight and praying that this ordeal would be over soon.

I blacked out, satisfied that no one would find me.

********************

Poirot arrived for his meeting with Roger Thompson, whom he had known when he was still a member of the Belgian police. They had worked together on several cases, often involving classified information.

"Thank you for coming, M. Poirot," Thompson said as they shook hands. "I know that this case is exceptionally difficult for you."

Poirot waved away his concern, although Thompson was quite correct. "I am happy to assist in any way, M. Thompson. I wish to keep safe my adopted country."

"Your loyalty is without par, sir," Thompson said, gesturing for Poirot to sit.

"What have you discovered?" Poirot asked, curious about what exactly Hastings – or whatever his name was – had been doing.

"We have some definite facts," Thompson said, "some suppositions, and many points of interest." He pointed to an envelope, and Poirot noted Hastings' even handwriting. "I'll start at the beginning. We know – and you have confirmed – that Arthur Hastings was born in Germany, not England, although we do not know where exactly.

"We also know that he has been a secret agent for a long time, at least two decades. We are not sure how he instilled himself in Britain or how he joined the army, but he did so and without raising any suspicion."

"So he was spying for Germany during the war," Poirot said, eyes closing briefly. While he was watching his people butchered, Hastings was helping the German army butcher them.

"Yes. For a while he was attached to Colonel Moore. We believe that he was a raven."

Poirot looked up sharply at this; no, this was even worse than he had imagined. All the guilt Hastings spoke of – how he was ashamed when he found out that Moore was married – obviously that was a lie. Hastings had known all along. Styles must have been a lie, too.

Thompson watched Poirot digest this new information, and then he continued, "Hastings' work as a raven seems to have ended after his convalescence at Styles. He was transferred from Colonel Moore's division at his own request, and ceased to convey information to the enemy. We are not certain why."

Poirot found this very curious. He could hear Hastings' words: "After my stay at Styles." He did not want to believe – although his heart ached for it to be true.

"After the war," Thompson said, "Hastings travelled a lot. His specialty was that of the naïve Englishman. He tended to retrieve information about countries other than Britain, and he had an excellent success rate. He excels at languages and accents, and he remembers details quite well, although he does not seem to be known for his reasoning skills."

"Such skills are unnecessary for one whose job is merely to gather information, not synthesize it," Poirot replied. Poirot raised his steepled fingers to his lips, intrigued about this new side to his friend. How clueless was his friend? What sort of cunning or intelligence was necessary for that charade? Was he so ignorant of his friend that he could not tell such a falsehood? "Styles," he thought. "What had happened at Styles?"

"Has he maintained activity over the years?" Poirot asked.

"His activities have slowed down considerably," Thompson replied, "and they have changed." He gestured to the envelop sitting atop his desk, and said, "For example, this time he returned to us information stolen by Albrecht Bosch. The plans for the submarine we did not know had been taken. He saved many British lives by returning them, and he did not have to at all.

"News retrieved from one of our spies in Germany suggests that he is regarded as having 'gone native' as it were."

"Native," Poirot murmured. 

"To tell you the truth, Poirot, I want him to officially switch sides. We can use him when the war comes. Make no mistake; war with Germany will come and soon."

Poirot had the terrible feeling that perhaps, without possession of all the facts, he had made a terrible mistake. His suspicions were confirmed when the secretary entered.

"Sir," he said, "News from the hospital. Enemy Agent 224 was taken to the hospital a few minutes ago. He tried to kill himself."

Poirot stood up at once, sharing an alarmed look with Thompson. "How the devil did he manage to do that?"

"I don't know, sir. The police have asked that you send a representative at once."

"I'll go myself," Thompson said. "Are you coming?" he asked Poirot.

" _Mais oui_ ," Poirot replied, grabbing his hat and coat.

 

Thompson rushed them both to the hospital in his car, and they were quickly escorted into the proper section. Hastings' private room was guarded by two officers. Thompson and Poirot greeted them, and entered.

Hastings appeared to be sleeping, but his pale color and hitched breath revealed that it was an uncomfortable sleep. Poirot winced when he saw the bright ring of color developing around Hastings' neck.

Thompson turned to Poirot, who had uncharacteristically been paying no attention to the doctor. "The doctor said that he tried to hang himself. They gave him something for the pain and to calm him."

Poirot nodded, and stepped up to Hastings' side. Hastings' pale hand rested gracefully on the white bedclothes, and Poirot took it in one of his, vaguely disappointed that Hastings' instinctive reaction – to pull away – never materialized.

Thompson murmured something about finding Inspector Japp, and departed from the room.

Poirot disliked the conflicting thoughts and emotions that assaulted his little grey cells, and for once he was uncertain what he should be feeling. He still remembered fondly the flirtation, the playfulness, and the thinly veiled desire. Surely he was not wrong? The feeling had been mutual. Others had tried seduction as a means to deceive him, and he had seen through their lies easily.

Had Hastings' confessed feelings been real? What could he have gained by seducing Poirot for reasons other than love? Poirot had no state secrets; he did confide in Hastings, but not so much that he would give away a secret if it were given to him.

He gazed at Hastings' neck and the dark-colored ring around it. He knew from experience that it would take weeks to fade. Hastings was brave, and had imperiled himself many times on Poirot's behalf. Poirot reached out to stroke his cheek.

Was he the mild-mannered gentleman or the cold _espion_ who spoke a harsh tongue and shot a fellow countryman in the back? Was he a loyal and devoted friend or a traitor and seducer?

What was his real name?

"Who are you, Arthur Hastings? Who are you?" Poirot whispered, shivering at the chill of Hastings' skin.

********************

My throat felt like it was on fire, and when I swallowed, I groaned at the agony. My first thought was that I had failed, and I doubted that a further opportunity would present itself. I opened my eyes, and saw that there was a constable in the room. When he saw that I was awake, he departed briefly.

Poirot entered with a man I recognized only from a single photograph which I had been shown nearly fifteen years ago. I had been warned that he was a dangerous man.

"Thankfully the patrol went back to check on you, or else we'd have lost you," Thompson said cheerily.

"Pity," I murmured, barely able to talk.

Thompson smiled, and replied, "Don't worry. We'll hang you soon enough, if that is what you want." He sat down in one of the chairs, but Poirot continued to stand. I could not focus on him in my current state, but I was curious to know why he had accompanied Thompson. Surely he had made his feelings about me perfectly clear.

"No choice," I replied, referring to his implication that being hanged was what I wanted.

"I'm sure we can strike a bargain," he replied, crossing his legs and swinging one in a carefree manner. "You're done us several good turns."

"Not at the expense of my homeland," I replied, coughing as the words stuck in my throat. I was surprised when Poirot was the one to assist me to sit up, and then to take several sips of water. I refrained from looking at him; I felt ashamed of my failure.

"Expense, no, but you must admit that the acquisition of those submarine plans would have aided Germany greatly."

"Perhaps," I replied, more because I was already trembling from exhaustion than because I wished for subterfuge. I knew very well how much those plans were worth; if my handler had discovered my betrayal, my life would be worthless.

"But you are tired," Thompson said, and he began to rise.

"No," I cried, disheartened and dizzy from nerves. "What is it you want? What is your bargain?"

Thompson nodded, and said, "I am prepared to offer you a pardon, if you will continue to work as a double agent. The minister has agreed that a faulty copy of the plans can be released so as to protect your reputation and allow you to continue your work."

"I consider my life of little worth, Mr. Thompson," I replied, pleased to note in a macabre sense that I had surprised them both with my knowledge of the man in front of me. "My only concern is for my father."

"Has your father been threatened?" Poirot asked, speaking to me for the first time since he entered.

"Yes," I replied. "Not overtly, but the last time I visited him, I was informed that his passport had been revoked and that he would not be allowed to leave. They said that it was too dangerous to allow the parent of an agent to travel." I sighed, and added, "I am convinced that they question my loyalty."

"You are loyal to Germany, yes?" Poirot asked.

"To Germany, yes, but not to the current government," I replied.

Thompson nodded. "That is understandable," he said. "If we agree to rescue your father, however, then your cover will be nullified and you will be no use as a double agent."

"My father is my only concern," I said, my exhaustion so great that my accent slipped. "If you can rescue him, bring him to England and allow him to live safe, I will tell you all I know and give you everything I have. I accept that my life is forfeit."

Thompson looked troubled, and he said, "I shall see what the minister says. I don't know if he will agree to this. He wanted you as an agent of the crown."

"Without my father's safety," I replied, "you will get nothing from me."

Poirot said, "You will need Hastings' intelligence, even if he is not the double agent." I was surprised to hear him speak about my intelligence as he has often maligned it, and I could detect no hint of sarcasm.

"I'll try to convince the minister of this need," Thompson said. To me he added, "You'll have to give me something to work with as proof that you intend to help us."

I closed my eyes, trying to think of something that would be enough but not too much. "At R—Bank, under the name of Charles Murray, I have a safe deposit box. It has several codes, including the one used by the agency in the Argentine."

Thompson wrote down these instructions, and said, "Thank you." He glanced at Poirot, and then said, "I will let you know as soon as I have heard anything."

********************

Poirot and Thompson met with Inspector Japp in a private corner. "Well?" Japp said.

"He's willing," Thompson said, "but he's concerned about his father." He looked between the two men; while he was unable to tell what Inspector Japp was thinking, Poirot's anxiousness was obvious. "Take comfort that – at least after the war – he has never done anything to directly imperil the country."

Japp nodded, and said, "He'll be kept here under guard for a few days. Someone will need to watch and make sure that he doesn't try another stunt."

"How did he hang himself?" Poirot asked.

"His tie – the green leaf one he always wears."

Poirot remembered the Christmas he had given that tie to Hastings. He had always felt a twinge of pleasure when he saw Hastings wearing it.

"I shall go back and speak to Hastings, if I may."

"Do you want me to wait for you?" Thompson asked.

" _Non_ , I shall find my own way home," Poirot replied.

********************

I was surprised when Poirot returned within a few minutes. The nurse had brought in something to make me sleep, and so I was unprepared for more interrogation. I stared at him blearily, watching as he sat in the chair next to my bed. Once he had settled himself, he turned his dark eyes my way. Not for the first time I wondered what he was thinking.

"Yes?" I murmured for lack of anything constructive to say.

Poirot's head tilted to the side. "You are sick, _mon ami_. We have sat at each other's sides before in such situations."

I hummed softly in response. I felt a spark of warmth at his regard, but my attitude quickly turned to confusion. "Not exactly such as now."

Poirot's eyes lowered briefly, and I was shocked to see him fiddle with his gloves. " _Non_ ," he agreed. He settled back in his chair, and seemed disinclined to talk further.

I found this silence agreeable, and fell quickly asleep.

 

In the past, Poirot tended to coddle his health, and often thought that he was sick when in fact it was nerves or too much rich food. When this latest bout occurred, I thought little of it. I was prepared to leave for two weeks – ostensibly to visit my friends in Scotland – but I went to see Poirot before I departed.

Ms. Lemon opened the door before I could put my key in the lock, and I was shocked by her paleness and the pinch of nerves around her mouth. "I was just about to telephone you," she said, letting me in.

"He's ill," I asked, putting away my hat and coat.

She nodded, and said, "It's serious this time." At my questioning look, she answered, "His cold turned into influenza."

I hurried into Poirot's bedroom, silent in case he was sleeping. I still remembered with fear the devastation that the Spanish Flu had wrought on Europe, upon my comrades both German and English, and especially upon my own family. My mother caught the disease, and died of it before I could return home.

Poirot was propped up on several pillows, and I could hear the hollow wheeze of his breath. I sat down next to him, and took his hand, which was clammy and cold with sweat. I could not tell if he was asleep, but he did not stir when I touched him. I gave Ms. Lemon a worried look, and whispered, "When was the doctor last here?"

"This morning," she whispered. "He left this medicine, and said to use cold compresses to help with the fever."

I nodded, familiar with the procedure as I have had to do it for myself during my own bouts with malaria. "I shall stay and assist," I said, removing my jacket. I began to roll up my sleeves.

"But what about your trip to Scotland?" Ms. Lemon asked.

I was not going to Scotland for pleasure but for business, and therefore I had to let my contact know that I would be delayed. If anyone else but Poirot (or Ms. Lemon, come to think of it) were sick, I would have continued with my plans; however, Poirot was ill – desperately so – and I could not leave him.

"I would never forgive myself, if I left and- and something happened to Poirot. Could you send a telegram for me, Ms. Lemon?" At her nod, I continued, "I shall get you the address in a moment. I want to take care of Poirot first."

"Of course," Ms. Lemon said, and I was surprised by the respect in her eyes.

 

I was reading a book when Poirot woke. His cough roused me from my wandering thoughts, and I sat down next to him on the bed, tossing the book aside. I used a cool to wipe the sweat from his skin.

"Hastings," he murmured softly. "You are still here?"

"You were sick," I replied. "I could not leave you."

I wetted the cloth once more in the basin on his nightstand, and pressed it against his cheek. I could feel his fever warm the cloth; that his fever was still high frightened me.

"This heat, Hastings," he said, his voice low and rough, "it will kill off the little grey cells."

I bit my lip to stop myself from saying, "Damn your little grey cells!" Instead, I shook my head, and said, "Nonsense. Your little grey cells have survived far worse. You told me so yourself."

His lips curved slightly in amusement, and he replied softly, "We shall see, _mon ami_."

 

Thankfully Poirot made a full recovery, and I was able to meet my contact, although by this time he had come to London in order to seek me out. I was well aware that by not completing my assignment I had reneged on my duties. My contact was furious.

"You fool!" he said, ripping the envelope from my hand. "I was nearly caught because of your incompetence!"

"Calm down," I replied, "or people will stare."

He murmured sullenly into his tea. "My friend was ill," I said. "I could not get away as planned."

"Your friend? You have no friends," he said, stuffing the envelope into an inner pocket. " _We_ have no friends."

"I have spent over a decade here," I murmured, bending forward a bit as if I were inspecting the cakes on the server. "It is impossible for me to not make friends."

"That Belgian of yours. Bah!" He grabbed a cake, and stuffed half of it in his mouth. "Scum," he murmured through the food. "You are becoming too soft. You should go home."

Strangely the thought of home did not appeal to me as it once had done, although if I could show Poirot my home, then I would gladly do so. I was happy in London, and I did not wish to leave.

"Perhaps," I answered, glancing around. No one appeared to be listening to us, and so I relaxed. "But I am best used here."

"You refuse?" he said, surprised.

"If I am ordered to return, then I shall return." I said, letting the rest remained unspoken. If ordered, I would return, but anything less than an order would see me resisting every step of the way.

 

If I thought I was going to lose control, however, I was always careful to seclude myself. Drunkenness never appealed to me, and so I had no fears that I would lose control in that way, but sickness and extreme pain were unavoidable ways in which I could accidentally let slip my secrets. I had practiced suffering extreme pain and not lapsing into German but during nightmares or sickness, during which I could not control my symptoms, I feared what my fevered mind would reveal.

After our return from the adventure at End House, I began to feel the symptoms of malaria: fever, a ringing in the ears, sweats and chills, nausea, and several other more unpleasant symptoms. No doubt the stress of that adventure and Poirot's sometimes antagonistic (and inexplicable) attitude toward me wore on my nerves and made me more susceptible to the attack. Fortunately I resided in my own flat at the time, and so I was able to let down my guard.

It was after Poirot's illness and my sudden departure to Argentina (via Germany and Spain) that I came down with a further bout of malaria. On this occasion I was residing in Poirot's flat, and there was no time for me to engage my own flat without looking suspicious. During the day Poirot left me to my own devices, being as he was suspicious of any illness. I could apply my own cold cloths and administer the quinine tablets myself.

During the third night of my illness I had some of the most vivid nightmares of my life, as if all my anxieties and fears were sorted out and illustrated for all to see. I dreamed of my old comrades and the young men I saw dying. I dreamed of the vile mud and bitter smell. I dreamed that I had revealed myself, and Poirot watched while I swung from the gallows. My fear of saying anything was such that when I woke, my jaw was clenched so hard that I felt my teeth were about to shatter.

Poirot shook me hard by the shoulders and repeated my name, and I almost told him that this was not my name. I could barely think through my fear, and I believe that Poirot must have thought I was suffering from some sort of seizure. I sat up, feeling a sudden restlessness. Poirot's hands rested on my shoulders; eventually I realized that he was speaking to me in French. I knew that I needed to speak in order to reassure him that I was fine, but I could not trust myself to speak the correct language. Instead, I repeated his words.

He raised me up into an embrace, and I clung to him gratefully, burying my hot face against his neck. He was cooing softly to me, and I was trying my best not to cry. I was terrified.

"You are safe," he murmured softly.

"No," I said, relieved that I had not said _nein_. "No, I'm not." I bit my lip, trying to stifle the outpouring of fear.

"Yes, yes, you are. Poirot is here," he said, holding me tighter.

I barely held back the hysterical laughter. "If you only knew the horrible things I've done," I said, cursing my loose tongue. "Du- during the war…"

" _Non, non, non,_ ," he murmured, and I felt the press of lips against my cheek. "You were doing them for your country."

Poirot could have no idea how right he was.

********************

Poirot remembered this later as he waited for Thompson to return with the verdict from the minister in regards to Hastings' father. He now appreciated the signs that he had missed. Hastings had been very clever, but Poirot could also recognize the honesty in Hastings' "confession". He wondered how he would have reacted if Hastings had been completely honest.

He remembered how Hastings had stayed by his side when he was very ill, forgoing a trip to Scotland, which Poirot now knew what a place Hastings travelled to a lot during his missions. Hastings had ignored a mission in order to take care of him. This was difficult for him to reconcile with a man who had betrayed his mother's country.

On the other hand, this showed the depths of devotion Hastings felt toward people for whom he cared. He remembered Hastings' anger when the valet had misled Ms. Lemon and how he had struck the man and knocked him over the bridge railing. Hastings appeared to care deeply for his friends.

The nurse exited Hastings' room, and said that he could enter. Poirot nodded his gratitude to her. When he entered the room, Hastings was poking his fork at the tray on his table.

"Good morning, Poirot," Hastings said, putting the fork down.

"Good morning," Poirot said. He knew Hastings was not the man's real name, but he had little clue as to how he should address him.

Poirot recognized the look of uncertainty in Hastings' eyes, and was frustrated by his own confused emotions of pity and anger. "We await Monsieur Thompson. He has not yet returned from the Home Office."

Hastings nodded, and reclined back against the pillows. Poirot watched his long fingers fiddle with the napkin, and remembered how they felt stroking his chin.

Hastings seemed to come to some decision, and said, "Why are you here?" At Poirot's questioning look, he said, "You made your thoughts about me perfectly clear. Why are you here now?"

Poirot had been asking himself that since the night he watched Hastings calmly shoot another man in the back. "What I have learned since I spoke with you has made me reconsider my words."

Hastings's surprise in this instance was not particularly gratifying. "Do you know," he said, gaze turned away from Poirot," that I am pathetic enough to accept your pity? I am that desperate for any hint of sympathetic emotion from you."

Hastings' laughed softly, but it was a bitter, heart-broken sound.

Poirot intended to speak, although he had little idea what he wanted to say, when Thompson arrived.

"Good morning, Captain Hastings. I have some news for you," Thompson said. "I was able to convince the minister that your knowledge was worth the safety of your father."

Hastings sighed softly, his relief clear. Poirot, meanwhile, kept looking at Thompson as he waited for the rest of his news.

Thompson glanced a bit nervously at Poirot, and said, "But I could not convince him that you both were worth this same knowledge. He has agreed to consider the matter."

Hastings looked resigned to his fate. Poirot hated it when he got that defeated look on his face. Hastings should be always pushing forward, always striving to do better.

"When will you commence with the rescue?" Poirot asked.

"Soon," Thompson said, "or else the German authorities will know that something is amiss when they do not see their spy active."

"And the good captain?" Poirot asked, aware of Hastings' puzzled expression.

"I will give you word as soon as I have heard anything," Thompson said, looking between them both.

********************

To my surprise, Ms. Lemon came to visit me. I was attempting to read a novel, but the book rested on my lap while I was lost in thought. "Captain," she said, startling me. The policeman behind her looked as though he was about to follow her into my room, but she firmly closed the door in his face.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Lemon," I said, putting the book aside.

She nodded, and took off her gloves. "Poirot has explained some of your predicament to me," she said, sitting down in the chair next to my bed.

"Did he?" I said casually. I was unsure why she was here. Surely she would hate me as any good British citizen should.

"Will you tell me the rest?" she said. Her manner was not combative; she seemed curious more than upset.

"But I don't know what Poirot told you," I said.

"Do you need to know what he has said?" she asked.

"I suppose not," I replied.

I told her as much as I had told the others, although as often as is the case with Ms. Lemon, I found myself more comfortable with discussing private emotions with her. I had always felt as though she were like a sister to me. I told her about my parents and my adventures. At a lull in the conversation, I noticed her thoughtful expression. "What is it?" I asked.

She frowned a little, and said, "You seem exactly as you always have."

"This is who I am," I replied.

"You don't seem to hate the British," she said.

"I don't," I replied.

She looked searchingly at me. "Can I ask you a question?" I asked. At her nod, I continued, "You don't seem to hate me."

"I should," she said. "M. Poirot said that you didn't spy against England."

"I tried not to do so. I promised my mother."

Ms. Lemon nodded, and said, "You are still a gentleman."

I blushed at her words.

"It's all rather dashing," she said, surprising me to no end.

"Dashing?"

"Well, yes. The adventure, the intrigue, the romance."

"Ms. Lemon," I cried, trying not to blush harder.

She fixed me with a stern look, and said, "I'm no dainty slip of a girl, captain, so there is no need to treat me like one."

"Of course," I replied, looking down.

Her expression I had seen before: a mixture of amusement and incredulity. After a moment of silence, I said, "Will you repeat this conversation to Poirot?"

Her chin rose, and she said rather defiantly, "Only if he should discover I was here and ask me directly." I was not sure if I believed her, when she added, "I never told him that you broke the clock he purchased for me."

"Well, quite," I replied, breathing a sigh of relief.

********************


	2. Chapter 2

Poirot was not sure what to expect when Herr Sebastian Maiwald arrived in London. Hastings had possessed a photograph, but it was from so many decades ago that it was unhelpful. Certainly the man walking toward him was unlike what he expected.

Maiwald was short and grey-haired, and his bearing declared to all that he was an academic. He had an air of sadness about him that Poirot recognized from his son. He was a handsome man.

Thompson and Poirot stood up when Maiwald arrived with the two officers. They exchanged greetings, and Maiwald said, his accent heavy, "I thank you for rescuing me. I am eager to see my son."

"Of course," Thompson said, leading them to the waiting car. They spoke very little on the way to the hospital, although Poirot noticed the looks Maiwald was giving him and he wondered how much the man knew about him.

Japp had the constable unlock the door, and Maiwald surged forward first. Hastings was asleep, and Maiwald stopped next to his son. He reached down to the bruises on his neck, and Poirot could see the tears in his eyes.

********************

" _Was hast du gemacht_?" ["What have you done?"]

The question roused me from my nap. I turned my head, and my father was standing above me. " _Papa_!" I cried, sitting up.

He enfolded me in a warm, strong embrace, and I clung to him as I had done when I was a child and needed the safety of my father. I knew others were in the room, but I did not care. My father was safe, and I could see him again before I died.

He sat down next to me on the bed, still embracing me. When eventually we parted, he pressed a hand to my neck. " _Was hast du gemacht_?" ["What have you done?"]

I looked down, ashamed of the devastation I saw in his eyes. " _Ich habe versagt_ ," I said softly. ["I failed."]

He sighed, his eyes closing. Very softly, he murmured, " _Wie soll ich ohne meinen Sohn leben? Zuerst deine Mutter und jetzt du_." ["How am I to live without my son? First, your mother, and now you."]

" _Papa_ ," I said, but stopped. There was little I could say to comfort him for he was right. Soon I would be executed for espionage.

I turned to the men before me. "Thank you for keeping your word," I said. "Ask me whatever you wish to know, and I will tell you."

Thompson smiled, and said, "First, I have a most urgent desire to know what happened to two Italian spies whom you met during one of M. Poirot's cases."

Poirot's eyes widened, and he turned his sharp, black eyes upon me. I gave him a rather sickly smile before turning back to Thompson. "They are both dead, and the papers were forwarded to Berlin."

 

The case in question was about a month ago. Poirot and I were engaged in the disappearance of a rare book and the murder of its curator, and had decided to spend the night at a local inn. I was taking a shower when I heard the door to the bathroom open and then quickly close. I tensed, thinking that someone was about to attack, and I was surprised when I heard Poirot murmur, "It is I, _mon ami_."

"Poirot?" I said, and he shushed me.

"There are two men in the sitting room, Hastings," he whispered.

I opened the shower curtain just enough to peer out at him. "Two men? Who are they?"

"I do not know," he replied in a frustrated hiss. "I have never seen them, and I do not think that they have a connection with this case." While he spoke, I watched his eyes quickly follow the line of my body and then back up, and I fought a smile.

"Burglars then?" I asked, reaching behind me to turn off the water. I must admit that I was less careful with shielding my body as I might otherwise have been if another had entered the bathroom.

" _Non_ , not necessarily," Poirot replied, this time in a slightly distracted voice. "They seem to be looking for something in particular."

If they were looking for the Hendrickson papers, then they would be sorely out of luck. I had sent those off almost as soon as I had stolen them. The papers dealt with Italy's interests in South America and Argentina in particular.

I reached for a towel, and wrapped it around myself, then stepped out. We opened the door a crack, and I stood as close as I could to Poirot without touching him. I did not need to hear him complain about stains and ruination of his clothes.

I recognized the two men immediately; they were Italian spies, particularly deadly ones, and my first thoughts were of protecting Poirot. He was in no shape to tackle trained killers, and I could not display all of my tricks without giving up more of myself than I could easily explain away. Still, if I had to reveal my true self in order to protect Poirot, then I would do so.

The taller of the two men went into Poirot's bedroom, and after he closed the door, I surged forward toward the other man. Before he could cry out, I hit him in the face, knocking him out cold. I felt a great satisfaction that he did not even make a sound. I laid him down on the floor so that he would not create noise when he hit the floor. Poirot's expression was one of surprise. "Lucky hit," I whispered, shrugging a bit before re-tucking in the towel. I searched for and found the gun he was carrying.

Poirot and I split up to different sides of the room. When the second man came from the bedroom, I tackled him to the ground. There was a struggle, and when I lost him and he tried to attack Poirot, I shot him.

The first man woken, and ran from the flat. I tried to run after him, ignoring the startled "Hastings!" from Poirot, but when I arrived in the hallway he had disappeared.

I was still contemplating how to reach my handler and let him know that I had lost an enemy agent when Poirot reached around me to place back the towel. " _Mon dieu_ , Hastings! You will catch your death of the cold!"

I looked down at him as he looked up, still holding the towel around me. "Thank you, Poirot," I said softly.

Poirot nodded slightly, his eyes going to the top of my head. "Your hair, _mon ami_ , it is still curly… as when I first met you. Sometimes I forget."

I swallowed heavily, well aware that my body was reacting to his closeness. "Yes," I murmured. "I try to keep it under control." As with many aspects of my life, I thought to myself. I wanted to kiss him, but Pierre stood in my way.

"Perhaps you should ring for the police," I said softly, lowering my eyes from his searching gaze.

His breath was heavy and quick; I knew how much he wanted me, but I would give him nothing until he was free from all others.

"Yes," he murmured softly, letting the towel fall to my feet. I blushed at his brazenness and my body's hearty approval of his desire.

He moved to the phone, and I picked up the towel, wrapping it around me once more. While he talked, I searched the body for evidence. Fortunately he had nothing that would identify either himself or me. The arrival of the police distracted Poirot, and I – now dressed – was able to call my handler. The agony column in the afternoon paper informed me that his companion had been disposed of.

The investigation continued, and Poirot never did learn why those men had been in our rooms.

 

I looked away as I spoke, the betrayal in Poirot's eyes too much for me to bear at that moment. Thompson wrote a message, and gave it to a nearby officer. 

The interrogation continued into the evening. Thompson or Poirot would ask a question, and I would answer. My father sat at my side, his hand in mine; I noticed that his hand shook every so often, and I knew that the strain of the past several hours had taken its toll on my gentle father.

"Mr. Thompson," I said, taking advantage of a quiet moment. Thompson was writing down notes, but he looked up, his expression polite. "My father is tired. If you could-"

"Oh, yes! My apologies. You must be exhausted after your travels, Herr Maiwald."

My father shook his head. "I am, but I wish to be here for my son."

"We shall cease the questions for tonight. I am sure we can all use the rest. M. Poirot has graciously consented for you to stay with him tonight."

I was surprised by Poirot's kindness, but when I looked at him, he held his gaze firmly upon Thompson.

"Thank you," I said, looking down at the sheets which covered my legs.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Poirot nod at my words, but he remained silent. My father hugged me tightly, and we said our goodbyes.

********************

Poirot and Maiwald returned to Poirot's flat late in the evening. Maiwald sat down in the armchair, and rested his head in his hands. Poirot felt an intense wave of pity for this helpless father, and despite his own tiredness, he decided that the man needed kindness. He sat down across from Maiwald, his countenance encouraging talk.

Eventually Maiwald said softly, his English heavily-accented but still clear, "I expected this sooner or later." He looked up at Poirot, and said, "I begged him to come home or to leave and never return – anything but to continue – and he refused."

"Why did he refuse?" Poirot asked.

"Duty," Maiwald said, "Duty, yes, but he also said that spies do not retire; they die. He frightened me so with his talk."

Poirot nodded in sympathy, and said, "Did he enjoy his work?"

"The travel, yes, and the adventure." Maiwald sighed, and added, "When he was a young man, he regarded it as a game."

Maiwald turned to look at Poirot's desk, and saw the photograph of Poirot and Hastings on what looked to be a beach. "My son started his spying before the war. He was so pleased with himself. He obtained this job on his own merit and not because I found it for him. I despaired of my son because he had little ambition. He was unsuited to the life of an intellectual, which is what I wanted for him.

"When he returned from his assignment in Belgium, I had hoped that he would quit." Maiwald paused, and then added, "He had fallen in love." Maiwald looked almost accusing at Poirot, and Poirot straightened.

"I had not the clue," Poirot said, trying not to blush.

"He hid it well," Maiwald replied. "His mother was pleased." At Poirot's incredulous look, he explained, "Arthur spoke about your intelligence in such glowing terms that she had high hopes you would convince him not to continue his work. She hoped that he would meet someone who could take care of him. She was very protective of our son."

"Your acceptance," Poirot said, "it is unusual."

Maiwald nodded. "And then- the war…"

" _Mais oui_ ," Poirot said, when Maiwald faltered. "The war affected us all."

Maiwald was lost in thought, and the look in his eyes suggested to Poirot that he was remembering his wife's death. "Afterwards, he wanted to forget the war; he was horrified by the deaths. He wanted adventure. He sent back letters and photographs. He spoke of you often."

"And you? How did you occupy yourself?"

"I continued to teach philosophy at the university."

Poirot's lips twitched in amusement as he remembered Hastings' glassy-eyed response when anyone mentioned philosophy.

Maiwald caught his expression, and smiled reluctantly. "I see you already are aware of his lack of enthusiasm on the subject. Arthur was always better at languages – that was his mother's influence – and he could make friends with nearly anyone."

"His name truly is Arthur? Arthur Maiwald?"

" _Ja_ , he felt that it would be too confusing to be called by two different names. 'Hastings' is from his mother's side of the family, several generations ago."

"This could be easily traced, could it not?" Poirot asked, frowning a bit.

"Perhaps, but no one did trace it, did they? Arthur disliked lying, and this was as close to the truth as he could manage."

Poirot considered the facts before him. Of course the witness was partial to his subject, but unless Poirot was wildly mistaken, the professor was a guileless a man as ever he had met. In addition, the facts fit the Arthur Hastings whom Poirot knew. Perhaps he wished to believe that Hastings was an honest, good man in order to mitigate his own humiliation at having been deceived. Poirot did not doubt that Hastings' desire to hide amongst the truth made him feel better about his friend.

It made him feel better for considering a traitorous spy his friend.

********************

Thompson returned the following day to continue the interrogation. Once I was deemed able to be moved, I was returned to my cell and a guard put night and day in front of my door in case I should decide to "take the easy way out," as Thompson said before he left me.

I heard nothing from him for a further three days. In the mean time my father came to visit me each day, and we caught up on news and other things. He brought me some familiar items from Germany, including some food and even managed to smuggle in a bottle of beer. I did not see Poirot during this time, and when I asked about him, my father smiled.

" _Er ist ein außergewöhnlicher Mensch_ ," my father said. ["He is an extraordinary man."]

" _Ich bin froh, dass du das denkst_ ," I replied. ["I am pleased you think so."]

" _Du hättest ihm vertrauen sollen_ ," he said, wagging a finger at me. ["You should have trusted him."] I sighed, and looked up briefly at the ceiling. " _Nein, nein, hör auf_ ," he said. " _Hör mir zu. Wenn du aus dieser misslichen Lage herauskommen willst, dann musst du deinem Freund vertrauen. Du hast ihm dein Herz geschenkt, warum vertraust du ihm nicht mit deinem Leben?_ " ["No, no, stop it. Listen to me. If you wish to get out of this predicament, then you must trust your friend. You gave your heart to this man; why do you not trust him with your life?"]

I was uncomfortable at my father's casual mention of my feelings. " _Ich hoffe, du hast solche Sachen nicht ihm gegenüber erwähnt, Papa_." ["I hope that you didn't say such things to him, papa."]

" _Natürlich nicht! Ich bin doch nicht dumm. Und du weichst mir aus_." ["Of course not. I'm not stupid. And you are being evasive."]

" _Ich glaube nicht, dass er mir helfen wird. Seitdem er mit dir ankam, habe ich ihn nicht mehr gesehen_." ["I do not think he will help me. Since the day he arrived with you, I have not seen him."]

" _Er muss über vieles nachdenken. Schließlich hat er gesehen, wie du diesen Spion umgebracht hast_." ["He has had much to consider. After all he did watch you murder that spy."]

" _Ja_ ," I said with a sigh. " _Ich wünschte, ich wüsste, was er denkt_." ["Yes. I wish I knew what he was thinking."]

" _Er wird es dir sagen, wenn er soweit ist. Das ist doch seine Art, oder?_ " ["He will tell you when he is ready. That's his way, isn't it?"]

I nodded, resting my head in one of my hands. My father sat next to me on the cot, and put an arm around my shoulders.

********************

Poirot had followed Albrecht Bosch to a rundown warehouse, and he was just settling himself to watch for Bosch's contact when he saw a familiar silhouette. He felt a sudden fear when he saw Hastings, and he wondered if Hastings had followed him. He had not told Hastings where he was going tonight because he knew that this case was exceptionally dangerous and Bosch was a vicious man.

He was just about to reveal himself in order to protect Hastings, when Bosch turned and addressed Hastings in German. Poirot held back, and watched in amazement as Hastings responded.

Hastings looked different somehow. His _beaux yeux_ were cold, his expression calculated and calm, his lips rigid. However, Poirot recognized the envelope that Bosch tossed to Hastings. Before his little grey cells could process what that might mean, he heard Bosch's breath catch and watched him fall forward.

Poirot wondered how Hastings could not hear the heavy beat of his heart. He watched as Hastings pocketed his gun – the one he had used on so many of their adventures – and then search the body. Whatever he found, he tucked into an inner pocket.

After Hastings left, Poirot went up to the body. A neat hole marred the blue of the dead man's coat, but he could see the blood spilling out from beneath the body, and knew that Hastings' shot had been clean and true. He searched the body, but Hastings had been thorough.

Poirot returned home, and noticed only as he put aside his hat and overcoat that his hands were shaking. He could not believe his eyes, but what explanation could there be? The man who had kissed him on this very spot not five hours before was a cold-blooded murderer.

********************

Nearly a week had passed since my father was rescued. I was reading a German novel which my father had lent to me when the door to my cell opened. As Thompson entered, I rose, eager to hear any news about my incarceration – whether they be good or bad. Thompson sighed, and said, "The ministers have not yet decided."

I slumped back onto the cot, and rested my head in one hand. "This wait is intolerable," I murmured.

"Well," Thompson said, his smile such that I could not tell whether I would like his next words or not. "I have a solution which would make your incarceration much more bearable."

"And what is that?" I asked.

"You know we will not hesitate to kill you if you try to escape," Thompson said.

"Yes," I replied, frustrated by his unwarranted cheerfulness.

"We can just as easily kill you from Whitehaven Mansions as from here."

Several moments passed as I tried to understand what he was saying. "You mean – I can leave the goal? Go home?"

Thompson nodded. "The ministers may be sometime, and Scotland Yard has need of this cell for more dangerous criminals."

As I pondered his words, he added, "It is either Whitehaven or the Tower."

"Whitehaven, of course," I replied.

"Why do you hesitate, then?" Thompson asked.

"Will Poirot and my father be safe?" I asked.

"As safe as they can be," he replied. "And you cannot ask for anything more than that."

I nodded. "My father is staying with Poirot still?"

"Yes, although we will move him into a hotel so that he will be comfortable but close."

I nodded. "What do you think my chances are for surviving?"

Thompson sighed, and shook his head. "Prepare for the worst, Captain."

 

As I was driven to Whitehaven Mansions, I worried about how Poirot would receive me. His attitude toward me seemed to have softened, and despite my words to him, I would rather that his softness not be due to pity. I would give anything to return to our happy days, or rather, anything but that kiss.

I found myself thinking back to my time in Belgium. I wonder how much more Poirot would hate me if he knew that our first meeting happened because of an assignment. Not only was I to practice my role as the naïve British gentleman, but I was also to obtain papers from the British Embassy in Brussels. Thanks to some awkward flirting, a handsome and rather brash young fellow who worked for the embassy invited me to a party being held in the very building in which I was to steal the papers.

I found it all rather fascinating, the mixture of British, French, and Belgian people who crowded in the sweltering halls of the embassy. My shy enticement got me onto the third floor, and after my companion had fallen asleep, I easily took the papers and escaped back downstairs.

I could not leave immediately because if the theft of the papers were discovered soon, then my early departure would be suspicious. On the other hand, I did not wish to stay so late that if the papers were discovered missing, I would risk being searched.

I felt a moment's guilt at my deception, and stepped outside onto the terrace to gather my wits. As I rested my hands on the balcony, I felt the weight of a stare upon me. I looked back to my right, and there was a man I had just passed by without realizing. I first noticed his eyes, which were dark and luminous. He was short and of stocky build, and he filled out his midnight blue uniform nicely. I felt my heart beat faster in my chest, party from desire and partly from fear; I recognized the uniform.

"Pardon me," I said with hesitation. "I did not mean to step in front of you."

I wondered if he spoke no English, but before I could translate my words, he answered me with a heavily-accented but quite pleasing voice. " _Non, je vous en prie_ , but I must issue my own apology. I did not mean to startle you."

"I-" I blinked, my insides trembling with nerves. At that moment I was no longer a spy with stolen papers in his jacket pocket but a young man who was suddenly in the presence of someone who was extraordinarily handsome. "You- you didn't startle me." I hesitated, and then said, "It is very hot inside, so I thought I would take some air."

"An excellent plan," he replied. "Would you care for a companion?"

"I- yes," I said. I reached out to shake his hand, which was large and broad. His moustache was particularly striking. "I am Arthur Hastings."

He shook my hand, and said, "A pleasure. I am Hercule Poirot."

"Are you a policeman?" I said, perhaps rather inanely.

He nodded once, and said, "A detective," he replied with a smile.

"Are you here tonight in any official capacity?" I asked.

" _Non_ ," he replied, "except as a representative of the police."

"So you're not expecting any criminals with grappling hooks and poisoned gas," I said, trying to sound like the naïve young fool I was supposed to be.

Poirot's lips twitched in amusement and with it his moustache, which I found fascinating. "You have quite the imagination, my friend," he said with a slightly mocking tone. He motioned with a graceful hand for us to walk down the terrace, and I followed him eagerly.

Poirot was fascinating, and I quite forgot myself as we talked. I wanted to learn all about him, and to tell him everything about me, which was a dangerous emotion while on a mission. He eventually excused himself, and I could hear the interloper whisper in his ear that a misfortune had occurred upstairs. Before he left, he asked me to lunch the following day, and I gladly accepted. Once Poirot was gone, I left with the papers.

I stayed in Brussels for as long as I could, and when I departed for England, we made a promise to write and to visit. After the war, duties kept me away, and when I finally was able to return to London and pledge myself to him, I discovered that he already had a lover, Pierre. Perhaps foolishly I saw that as a sign that Poirot had never felt a regard for me and that I was fortunate not to compromise my career with a love affair.

As I said above, however, one day I woke to the realization that I was getting older and that I needed to speak of my feelings to Poirot before I lost the chance. I wished that I had done so sooner because Poirot's response was most gratifying; however, the delay was damn near intolerable. I feared that Poirot might never end his relationship with Pierre, and I contemplated what I should do next.

I was in Hyde Park when I spotted Poirot walking with Pierre. My dislike of the man had grown since I now knew that Poirot and I shared a similar passion for each other. I wanted Poirot, and I was aware that I should be prepared to wait even longer; however, knowing that Pierre was kissing those lips and making love to that body made me burn with rage and envy.

I tailed them for a bit, which was difficult in the open field of Hyde Park. It looked as though they were arguing, and I felt a modicum of satisfaction.

When Poirot returned to the flat that afternoon, I was attempting a casual stance by the window.

Poirot's lips twitched, and he said, "You would make a terrible spy, _mon ami_."

I started at his words, and said, "What do you mean, old thing?"

"You were not able to conceal yourself in Hyde Park."

I flushed a little with embarrassment but also relief, and told my heart to stop pounding so violently. I crossed my arms, and said in my defense, "I wasn't following you. I just happened to be there while you were."

"Of course," Poirot said, amused. He sat down at his desk, and carefully arranged the miscellanea on it. I remained at the windows, waiting for him to speak. "You are wondering, yes?" he said.

"Poirot," I cried, "You are the limit!"

His smile deepened, and he said, " _Mais oui, mais oui_. Pierre would agree with you."

"Would he?" I said firmly, not bothering to hide my jealousy and distress at the mention of his name.

Poirot shrugged his shoulders and raised his hands in an exaggerated Gallic manner, and said, "Perhaps that is why we have parted company."

I stilled when I realized what he meant.

"Poirot," I murmured. I moved until I could rest my hand on his shoulder. "Why did you do this?"

Poirot looked at me, and said softly, "You know why, _mon ami_."

My breath caught. I began to lean down toward him.

The doorbell rang. When Japp entered the room, he discussed with us a spy named Albrecht Bosch.

 

When I arrived at Whitehaven, my father was waiting at the door to greet me. He hugged me tightly, and said softly, " _Mein Kleiner_ , you are here!"

"I am, papa," I replied, kissing him on the cheek.

Ms. Lemon came out of her office, and surprised me with an embrace of her own. It was most gratifying to know that I was missed.

Poirot rose when I entered the sitting room. I felt awkward standing before him as I was unsure how I should engage with him. If this had been before my incarceration, I would have gladly approached him, knowing that he would embrace me and kiss my cheeks in the continental style. I would have blushed and stammered, but enjoyed it immensely.

Poirot gave one of his funny little bows, and I knew not to approach further. "Thank you for allowing me to stay here, Poirot," I said.

"You are welcome, Hastings. It seemed the easiest for all present."

"Yes," I said, forcing myself not to fidget.

Ms. Lemon patted me on the arm, and then went back to her office. Father grabbed my hand, and led me to the settee. "You must tell me all about this car of yours, Arthur. I did not realize that you had purchased a new one."

I settled in next to him, and began to talk about my Italian car. Poirot returned to whatever he was doing at his desk.

 

My things had been packed and brought to Whitehaven Mansions, and I was grateful to have my clothes and toiletries at hand. I was distressed at the demise of my green leaf tie, but I doubt I could have worn it against after what I last used it for. The photograph of my parents was on my nightstand, and I knew I had Poirot to thank for this.

But for the initial awkwardness and the fact that I could not leave Whitehaven Mansions, our lives seemed almost normal. I missed accompanying Poirot on his cases, but at least I could be there for the initial interview. My father found it quite fascinating, and would ask Poirot all manner of questions and even accompanied Poirot on one of his cases. When I asked him – a bit jealous – how he liked it, he replied that there was far too much running. "Although I am glad to see my future son-in-law at his occupation."

"Papa," I said reproachfully.

Father shared dinner with us that night, but left early for his hotel. Poirot and I played chess, but it became obvious that neither of us were interested in the game. "My apologies, _mon ami_ , but my mind is occupied by other matters."

"Of course, old chap," I replied. "We should talk, I suppose, now that we are alone."

Poirot nodded, and rose to pour us drinks. We sat down on the settee together, and I waited for him to speak. "Your father was not what I expected," he said; although I was pretty sure that was not what was bothering him, I knew he would tell me in his own time.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"He is quiet, cerebral."

"He has always been that way," I replied. "My mother was the more loquacious of my parents."

"How did your parents meet?"

"My father came to England in order to study at Oxford. My mother's family visited her brother, who was also studying there. They met, and fell in love. Mother's father hated him, and it created quite a rift between them."

"A permanent rift?" Poirot asked.

"Not permanent, no, but I only ever saw my English grandparents a handful of times. We would visit England quite often, however, and holiday on the coast."

Poirot's fingers were pressed together, and he sat as he often did when he was deep in thought on a case. I hate that I was the object of his investigations, but I knew that I had to trust him and reveal all in order to secure his help and rekindle his regard.

"Ask, old thing, and I shall answer," I said softly.

He looked at me through slightly narrowed eyes. "Why did you become a spy?" he asked.

"It wasn't because I hated my grandparents, if that is what you are thinking," I said. His expression revealed nothing, and I sighed. "My father had high hopes that I would become an academic like him, but I was never so inclined. One day, a friend told me that his father was looking for young men with special skills who were interested in serving their country. I applied, despite considering myself to have no special skills, and they asked me to join them. They said that I had extraordinary language skills and also that my English background would be a bonus."

"You were happy to betray your mother?" Poirot said.

"Of course not!" I cried. I stood up, and paced nervously for a few moments. When I reached the mantel, I stopped, and said, "They did not put it into such terms, Poirot. I was going to do my duty and protect my country. I was going to use what brains I had to aid my fellow men. I was going to do something good, something exciting and dangerous."

I looked at the mantel top, and noticed that my picture was gone. I touched the spot where it had been, and said softly, "I did not think about death or betrayal. I was only going to playact – to steal some papers that some anonymous government official wanted – and then do it all over again. Nobody said anything about killing until the war started."

I turned to Poirot and said, "I could not abandon my country, Poirot, not at that time. I am not a coward."

Poirot nodded at my words, and said, " _Non_ , Hastings, you are not a coward, but I cannot forgive you because your deeds contributed to the invasion of my country and the slaughter of Belgian men, women, and children. Your actions are the reason why I lived in exile for the duration of the war."

"I never worked on Belgian information during the war," I said softly, although his words cut me to the marrow. I knew that he was right; even if I had not been involved directly, I still worked for German intelligence. "They wanted British information from me."

"And before the war?" Poirot asked, rising from his chair. His expression was keen, like a hound on the trail of a fox.

I swallowed before answering, and I was almost unable to hear myself through the pounding of my heart. "I was instructed to steal some papers from the Belgian Embassy."

"The night we met," Poirot said, jaw clenching. His pride was wounded even further.

"Yes," I said. "I had them on my person when we first met."

"And I let them go," Poirot said bitterly, "deceived by an innocent face and foolish eyes."

"I stayed," I said hesitantly. Poirot studiously looked away from me, and for a moment I was not sure if he was listening to me. "I stayed well past the time I was supposed to leave for England. I had fallen in love with you."

"You hardly knew me," Poirot replied.

I laughed softly, unable to completely hide the bitterness I felt. "My parents fell in love over a weekend, and suffered much to be together. Do you not think I would take after them?"

Poirot's expression seemed to soften, but I knew that I had not persuaded him. "After the war, I returned to find you involved with another man. My love was not returned."

"Poirot is different, _mon ami_. While the passion may flare quickly, love is more a challenge to kindle."

"When?" I asked. At his confused look, I added, "When did I kindle that love? Can you at least tell me that?"

Poirot regarded me with an air of offense, and replied, "And give you the satisfaction of having pulled the wool over my eyes? A thousand times _non_!"

"Blast it, Poirot, I already have that satisfaction, and I don't want it!" I said, finally losing my temper. Poirot rocked back on his heels in surprise as I continued, "I want to know when you fell in love with me so that I can bloody well torment myself with how much time I wasted without you!"

Silence continued well past the point of comfort, and I was about to leave the room, convinced that he would not answer me, when he said, "If you will recall, during the T--- case, I sent you on a useless errand which could only be accomplished on foot and which took you over three hours to complete?"

"Yes," I said, frowning at the memory. My feet had hurt like the blazes afterward, and Poirot had complained constantly about the cold and the smell of the countryside.

"I fell in love with you then."

"That was over ten years ago!"

" _Mais oui_ ," Poirot nodded.

I gaped at him for a moment, and then said, "Why? Because I was a complete fool?"

" _Non_ , because you smiled at me later that evening, and asked me if I was warm enough." Poirot's lips twitched slightly at my confusion, and he said, "You forgave me for my game, and continued to care for me despite your own discomfort. Little moments like that built, Hastings, until I came to the realization of my love."

"You never said anything," I replied. Ten years? Good lord, if only I had known.

"Why should I have bared myself to you? You seemed to regard Pierre with good humor and to chase after the women with enthusiasm."

"I hated Pierre," I muttered, turning away from Poirot.

"You hid it well, Hastings," Poirot said softly. "You hid many things."

"It is easy to hide, Poirot, when people think you have nothing to hide," I said.

I started when Poirot's hand rested on my arm. "Look at me, _mon ami_ ," he said softly.

I turned to look at him. His dark eyes were firm upon mine, and I could not turn my gaze from him. "Poirot?" I whispered.

"You must sympathize with me, Hastings? Do you not?" he asked, his expression earnest. I could see the hurt and confusion in his eyes, and what I wanted to do most of all was embrace him.

"I do, my friend," I said softly.

"My love, it does not change," Poirot said, and I felt a swell of happiness in my heart. I smiled at him and took his hand, cradling it in both of mine. We watched our hands caress – his shorter, thicker fingers entwined with my longer ones – for a few moments, our breaths the only sound in the room.

"But…" I said softly, aware that he had more to say.

"But my trust – and my pride – they are wounded. I do not know if I shall ever trust you again."

We were standing very close, hands still clasped; I could have easily bent down and kissed him. I shook my head, and said, "I do not know how to regain your trust, and I haven't much time to unravel the mystery."

"You will not even try?" Poirot asked.

"No, I did not say that," I replied, brushing my fingers against his cheek. His eyes closed, reminding me of a cat being stroked. "But we both know that my talents lie elsewhere. Nevertheless, I shall try, _mein Bärchen_."

Poirot's eyes opened, and he gazed up at me in surprise. At my inquisitive glance, he said, "I have only heard you speak in your native tongue once."

"Oh," I said, grimacing a little. "That must have been truly unpleasant. I apologize."

Poirot nodded, and stepped back. The moment had been lost. " _Mais oui_ ," Poirot said. "If you will excuse me, I shall retire for the evening."

"Of course," I said, shaking my head despondently. "Good night, Poirot."

"Good night, Hastings," he replied. Poirot departed, leaving me standing in the middle of the sitting room.

 

I considered the problem for a couple of days. While Poirot was gone, I spoke with my father about the situation, but his advice was unhelpful. He had never made so serious a blunder as I had.

We were less careful in speaking, and while Poirot was around, we spoke in German sometimes. It felt nice to be able to converse freely without worrying about slipping into the wrong language. It was father's idea that the conversation, too, would get Poirot used to hearing the language from us.

I spent time in Ms. Lemon's office, discussing finance and investments. My father disliked financial talk, and retreated to the sanity of Poirot's office while Ms. Lemon and I reviewed the stock quotes in the paper. I also took the time in her office to review my will and financial records. My money and belongings, apart from some items for Ms. Lemon and Poirot, would go to my father. I wanted to make sure that he would be well taken care of now that he was no longer able to make a living in Germany. I took my imminent death for granted, and I could not expect the government to provide for father indefinitely.

That evening, after everyone else had departed, I brought the matter up with Poirot. Poirot shook his head, and said, "You do not know what the ministers will decide, Hastings."

"Well, yes, but I think it very likely that they will sentence me to death, and I do not wish to wait until the last minute to make these decisions. Now, in my will I've left my car to father, but I don't think he should drive it. He's very absent-minded behind the wheel-"

I stopped when Poirot stood up abruptly, turning his back to me. "Poirot?" I asked.

He shook his head roughly, nearly yanking the pince-nez from his nose. "I apologize, _mon ami_. This conversation, it is distressing."

I rose, and came to his side, which was the closest I had been to him since our discussion about trust. "I find it distressing as well, but it needs to be said. I shall feel much better once I have all of my affairs in order."

Poirot nodded and turned to me, a determined look on his face. "What would you have me do?"

I smiled at him, grateful for his help. "I have asked that you be executor of my will."

Poirot nodded tightly, his lips pinched together with decided unhappiness.

"Will you look after my father?" I asked. "I know that this is much to ask of you, especially after my deception, but I worry about him. I was able to take care of him before at a distance, but now-" I cleared my throat, the emotion getting the better of me. "I have left him a fair amount of money, but-"

"Money does not replace a son," Poirot interrupted.

I nodded. "Father likes you a lot. He trusts you. I know that he will listen to you. I hope… that he will not be a burden to you."

Poirot shook his head, and said, "He will not be. I would never think of him as such. I have no parents of my own to care for, and so I shall gladly accept this 'burden'."

I was surprised by Poirot's sudden openness as much as his revelation, and I said, "I did not know you had no parents."

Poirot looked at me with incredulity, and said, "Did you not investigate my background before living with me?"

My mouth hung open in shock at his words. I cried, "That would be an invasion of your privacy!"

Poirot's eyes widened, and he stared at me for a moment. I jumped slightly at his sharp laugh. He said, "You, the spy, were worried about the privacy of the person with whom you were living? The man with whom you fell in love?"

"Well, yes," I said. Despite the seriousness of our discussion, I could not stop my smile. "I know it sounds foolish of me, doesn't it?"

"Quite foolish, _mon cher_ ," Poirot replied, and I felt warmed by his fond look.

 

Poirot's question about spies and love jogged my memory, and during the night I woke with an idea about how I could regain Poirot's trust, or if not his trust, than at least his sympathy for my situation. I was not the only spy who had fallen in love during an assignment.

During breakfast, I asked Poirot, "Will you be seeing Thompson today?"

" _Oui_ ," he replied. "I shall ask him what is taking so long with this decision."

"Do you trust Thompson?" I asked. Poirot gazed at me, no doubt aware that I had a reason to ask such a pointed question. When Poirot nodded, I said, "Ask him about Jack."

"Jack?" Poirot asked, his head tilting slightly. "What about this Jack?"

I smiled sadly. "It is not my story to tell, and you would not believe me, even if I did tell it."

Poirot looked away, and I knew that I was right. He would not trust me. I feared that while I would score a victory, it would be a hollow one.

********************

Poirot met with Thompson the next day. Thompson was aware that something was wrong; Poirot was more quiet than usual. When Thompson asked if he had any questions, Poirot said, "Who is Jack?"

Thompson simply blinked. "What?" he asked.

"Who is Jack?"

Poirot watched the emotions flash through Thompson's eyes: shock, love, regret, and then coldness. "What did Hastings tell you?"

"Nothing other than to ask you about Jack."

Thompson huffed. "He would know," Thompson murmured, and then stood up. He paced a nervous tempo, fingers snapping as he considered his words. "Jack _was_ my lover."

Poirot's eyebrows rose at Thompson's admission; he had wondered as to Thompson's sexual disposition, but had never a reason to inquire further than mere supposition. Thompson was married and had children.

"No," Thompson said, and Poirot marveled at the tragedy of one simple sound. "No, he was more than my lover; he was the love of my life. I met him while on assignment in Russia. He was beautiful, intelligent, kind. He loved me."

"When did it come to an end?" Poirot asked softly.

"I know why Hastings told you to ask me," Thompson said, smiling bitterly. "Clever of him. He knows." Poirot was confused, but before he could ask, Thompson continued. "Hastings is a good spy, but not nearly the best. I, however, am one of the best. He is good at finding and delivering information, but he lacks the ruthlessness – the desire to accomplish a deed and damn all the rest."

At once the realization struck Poirot, and he said, "Jack discovered something."

"Yes," Thompson said, "He discovered a plan which I had stolen, but rather than go to the authorities and turn me in, he confronted me. He offered me salvation and a means to end my spying. He wouldn't say a word." Thompson paused, and then said, "I killed him."

Poirot nodded, his thoughts on that terrible night when he watched Hastings shoot a fellow spy in the back and search his corpse for evidence.

Thompson looked at him, a knowing gleam in his eyes. "You discovered the truth, Poirot, but you had no intention of turning Hastings in, did you?"

Poirot shook his head, and said, "I wished to speak with him first, and then…"

"He would not have killed you," Thompson replied. "I have no idea what he would have done, but he would not have killed you. He is not good enough of a spy to do what is right."

"Perhaps not," Poirot said, "but I do not require a good spy. I require a good friend – my good friend, Captain Hastings."

Thompson nodded, his sigh producing a long stream of cigarette smoke. "I am trying, Poirot. I know that…" Thompson stopped abruptly.

"Yes?" Poirot asked.

"I don't- I-" For a brief moment, Thompson lost the weight of experience and age. Poirot could see the young man who clearly still loved. "I did what was right," he eventually responded. "I know I did, but I regret it all the same. I believe that Hastings' knowledge would be a valuable asset to us, but I also admire him for being unable…" Thompson looked away, and the emotion was lost. Nevertheless, Poirot was deeply moved.

"If that is all," Thompson said, "I shall call a car to drive you home."

********************

Poirot returned later in the afternoon, interrupting my father's attempt to teach me about Plato and his influence on the German philosopher Georg Hegel. "You need students, _alter Herr_ ," I said, smiling at Poirot as he entered the sitting room. "All of this is over my head."

I was reclining on the settee, having been woken up by father's need to talk about his latest idea. Poirot smiled down at me, although I could tell that he was deep in thought about something. I hoped that it was about Thompson.

Father clicked his tongue, and said, "You need only apply yourself, _mein Kleiner_. Is that not right, M. Poirot?"

Poirot gave an exaggerated Gallic shrug, and said, "I have always thought so." I pouted at him, exaggerating my own distress at his taking my father's side. He smiled at me fondly, and patted my shoulder. I returned his smile, forgetting for the moment that my father was in the room.

My father coughed delicately, breaking our spell. "Would you like to hear my theory, M. Poirot?"

"Of course," Poirot replied, sitting at his desk.

I groaned, and turned to my side. With a rough fluffing of the pillow, I returned to my nap.

 

My father left early after dinner, claiming that he was quite tired; however, I knew that he was giving us time to ourselves. I murmured my thanks in his ear, and then waved him goodbye.

Poirot awaited me in the sitting room. "I spoke with Mr. Thompson," he said, taking my hand.

"You did?" I asked. "What did he say?"

"You know already what he said to me, _mon ami_. I want to know your purpose in sending me to him."

"I knew that you trusted and respected him," I said hesitantly. "I hoped that his story might convince you."

Poirot reached up to stroke my cheeks with his fingers. "Tell me your story," he said softly.

"I fell in love," I replied, "with a wonderful man. My love had nothing to do with my profession or my nationality. _I_ fell completely in love with _him_. But I loved my country as well, and did what I felt was right for them both."

Poirot and I gazed at each other. I saw the minute nod of his head, as he might during an interview when his suspicions were confirmed, and then his hand moved from my cheek to cup the back of my head. He then guided my head down toward his.

I sighed with pleasure as he kissed me, his movements sure but gentle. I wondered what had changed his mind, whether it was Thompson's story or my words, but I did not question my good fortune; instead, I returned his kiss, embracing him tightly.

We collapsed on the couch, breaking the kiss for some desperate breaths. Poirot kissed down my neck, his teeth scraping against the skin and making me cry out. Our legs tangled together, and I pressed my thigh against his member, causing him to moan against my neck.

I pleaded with him for more, and then kissed him passionately, my hands going to his bowtie. He pressed a hand against my stomach, distracting me as his fingers brushed lower.

"Bed, _mon ami_ ," he said, sitting back.

I moaned softly, aroused by his flushed cheeks and lust-filled black eyes. He reached for me, and pulled me close, kissing me once more. I climbed into his lap, straddling his legs, and we both moaned at the pleasant pressure. His large hands held my backside, urging me closer.

I shrugged out of my waist-coat and tie, and Poirot made quick work of my shirt. His hands stroked up my body as he removed my undershirt. He stroked my chest and back, his lips and teeth bringing me to near frenzy.

He reiterated his desire for the bed, and pushed until I moved off of him. I grabbed his hand, and pulled him up and into another kiss. Once we were in his bedroom, I made him keep his hands off of me until I could remove some of his clothes. I explored his chest, delighting in his crisp, dark hair and pale, soft skin. He urged me to kiss him, which I did, but then I knelt before him, eager to see the rest of his body.

Having stripped him of his garments, I stroked his thighs and back, and then surprised him by taking his member into my mouth. It had been a long time since I had done such a thing, but I could never forget the delight I felt in giving such pleasure. I only stopped when Poirot's hand tightened in my hair, and he urged me to pull away.

I stood at his request, and he kissed me thoroughly before pushing me down onto the bed. Soon I was as naked as he, and we rolled about on his large, decadent bed. I discovered that his neck was quite sensitive, and that I quite liked to have my fingers sucked.

He murmured his need, and I said softly, "What do you want, my love?"

He smiled, and kissed me before answering, "I want you within me."

I nodded, and kissed him. "Gladly," I murmured, smiling at him.

We continued to kiss while I prepared him, and I nearly lost my self-control before we could join. Poirot soothed and petted me whilst I calmed myself. "I have wanted you for so long," I whispered, feeling the need to apologize.

"Do not fret," he murmured, kissing me tenderly. "You flatter this old man."

"Old, my eye," I replied, hugging him. "You'll exhaust me before we're done."

I settled myself between his legs, and watched his expression as I pressed into him. He encouraged me to continue, and soon we were crying out as I thrust into him.

Every dream, every fantasy that I had experienced paled when compared with reality. Poirot clutched my back, begging me in French for more, to not stop, to love him. I tried to control my own words for fear of spoiling the moment as I had a few days before, but I could not hold back and so I answered him in German, speaking of my love and desire.

Poirot cried out one last time, and as he peaked, I joined him, almost collapsing on top of him. Only my arms stopped my complete descent. We were panting, trembling, and I felt a wave of emotion. I held him close, burying my face against his neck. Poirot held me tightly, and we spoke not one more word as we drifted into an exhausted sleep.

********************

Poirot woke in the middle of the night to the unfamiliar sound of light snoring. Hastings was awkwardly bent against him, and his face was still pressed to Poirot's neck. Poirot adjusted him slightly, and Hastings murmured his name before returning to a sounder and more silent sleep.

Poirot felt achy in all sorts of places, and he reveled in the remnants of passion. Even at the height of their love affair, Pierre and he had never experienced such desperate lust. What he thought might have been love for Pierre faded when he considered his complicated feelings for Hastings. Throughout their affair, when Pierre had been gone, he rarely thought of the man. He kept no pictures or mementos of Pierre around his apartment. Hastings, however, left his mark in a number of ways, and when he was gone, Poirot missed him – sometimes absent-mindedly, sometimes with keen sharpness.

When he had ended the affair, Pierre had railed against Hastings, calling him cold and boring. He had also revealed that he knew Hastings had wanted him, which surprised Poirot because he had only become aware of this a few weeks before. The day after Hastings' arrest, he had considered returning to Pierre for comfort, but both his pride and his love kept him from that course. Now he was grateful that he had not given into his base instincts.

He understood now that Hastings had not thought of the consequences of his actions, which was quite typical for the man, and his lack of malicious intent still amazed Poirot. He believed that Hastings had meant no ill will toward anyone, and although he still burned with anger at the thought of Hastings's deception at the Belgian embassy, he also admitted that he admired Hastings for his bravado and his courage. He appreciated Hastings' knowledge of his own heart and the surety of his feelings.

His thoughts about the war were even more complex, but he recognized that a soldier's duties took precedent over his personal feelings. He knew that he could not blame Hastings for what the German army had done to Belgium anymore than he could blame the Belgian army for killing Germans. War was war – a terrible business.

He had recognized in a flash of realization on the way home from his interview with Thompson that he did not have to work through all of these complicated emotions before declaring his intentions to Hastings. In fact, such pedantics would do both of them a disservice. If the worst happened, he would have lost precious time with his Hastings and nothing would be solved. If Hastings were saved, then there would be plenty of time to discuss and pardon.

He studied Hastings' face, wondering at its almost delicate quality. He had thought perhaps that Hastings had affected an innocent nature and guileless eyes, but he was wrong. That innocent nature was a part of his Hastings, and the cold _espion_ was the affectation. He worried about his friend; Hastings had grown thin and looked older and grayer.

Poirot prayed that he would be given the chance to see his carefree Hastings once more.

********************

I sighed as I woke, stretching a bit to move my pleasantly sore muscles. We were lying in bed together, Poirot's head on top of my shoulder. I could feel the weight of his little grey cells as they thought heavens only know what. I waited patiently for him to speak, my only movements that of my hands on his arm.

"What would you have done?" Poirot asked softly. I raised my eyebrows, and he continued, "If I had confronted you that night or the next day?"

"I don't know," I replied honestly. "Pleaded, perhaps? Escaped? I could have run to Germany with little difficulty. Of course, when I returned there, I would have had to answer for some of my actions, but-"

I stopped because Poirot was smiling against my neck. It was fleeting, however, and Poirot's voice was serious as he said, "You would not have done as M. Thompson had done?"

I shook my head, my arms tightening around Poirot's body. "No," I replied softly. "I could never have… have hurt you. I tried, remember?" Poirot nodded, and I added, "Even when I hated you, I could not hurt you."

Poirot kissed me gently, his hand caressing the back of my head and holding me in place. I responded with equal gentleness, hands stroking his broad shoulders. His kisses softened until we were once more still.

I rested my head against his neck, content to be held and listen to his breath. "I wish-" I said softly, and when Poirot squeezed my shoulder gently, I continued. "I wish that you had not discovered my secret in that manner. I wish that I had possessed the courage to speak to you sooner."

Poirot nodded, and said softly, "I do not know how I would have reacted."

I laughed softly. "In my fantasies, you would forgive me, we would make love, and then I would somehow cease being a spy."

Poirot smiled, and said, "I approve of your flight of fancy, _mon ami_." He kissed me gently, and murmured against my lips, " _Mais oui_ , I approve most definitely."

"I am glad, my dearest, _mein Bärchen_."

Our kisses deepened as we shifted against one another. I spread my legs, and Poirot accepted my invite with gratifying eagerness. We nipped at each other's lips and necks, and this gave way to soul-deep kisses. We paused long enough for Poirot to retrieve the lotion, although he nearly dropped it when I began to stroke his member.

I hummed as his slippery fingers entered me, and bent my leg around his waist to make it easier for him. I laughed softly, and said, "This is where the cold spy's heart breaks, and he declares his love for his detective."

"You have already declared your love, _mon cher_ , but if you wish to do so again, I would not mind." Poirot spoke with such sweet tenderness that I could have cried. His fingers twisted, and my breath caught in my throat.

"I love you, Hercule Poirot. You are everything to me," I said.

I thought for a moment that Poirot might not respond, but before my heart could break, he leaned forward, his other hand caressing my cheek. "I love you, Arthur Maiwald," he replied.

"Poirot," I whispered. I had not realized until this moment how much I wished to hear him say my real name. I kissed him, my hands stroking his shoulders and neck.

I murmured softly as he slid himself into my body, his broad hands holding my thighs. I raised my legs over his shoulders, and he began to thrust slowly. I wished for our union to be gentle and leisurely, and was grateful that Poirot agreed.

We were silent but for the occasional sigh and the muted slide of skin against skin. I rested my hands on his hips, enjoying the movement of his muscles beneath his warm skin and the force of his body.

Gradually his thrusts quickened, and I took myself in hand, only needing a light palm to bring myself over the edge. I heard him whisper an imprecation, and felt him throb inside of me. I stroked a hand down his damp side, encouraging him.

He rested his forehead against my chest, panting softly. I stroked his hair, overwhelmed by feelings of love and tenderness.

" _Ich liebe dich, mein Bärchen_ ," I whispered.

" _Je vous aime de tout mon Coeur_ ," Poirot replied, looking up at me.

I brushed the backs of my fingers against his cheek, contented from our lovemaking and ready for more sleep.

 

We were understandably reluctant for the morning to begin, and after a quick shower and a lingering breakfast, we settled ourselves in our normal spots. When my father arrived, I greeted him with a hearty good morning. We embraced, and then he looked at me, holding me at arm's length. Whatever he saw on my face deepened his smile, and he nodded.

Father sat down in the chair opposite the settee, and said, "I have been thinking about Hegel again."

"Oh, papa," I replied with a groan.

Although our peaceful home was disrupted in the afternoon, but I shall always cherish the memory of Poirot as he watched me and the happy look on his face.

********************

It was late afternoon on that same day. Hastings and Maiwald were seated at the dining table, playing Monopoly; Hastings was winning, and Poirot was amused to see that Maiwald had even less financial sense than his son. Poirot admitted that he was being unfair to poor Hastings, who had a sound financial background but lacked the patience and analytical skill necessary to make prime use of his knowledge.

Poirot pondered their game – and the beautiful light of victory on Hastings' face – when there came a knock on the door. Ms. Lemon answered it, and Thompson entered. Poirot needed only one glance to know what the ministers had decided.

Hastings and Maiwald looked up, still smiling over the game. Hastings went pale at Thompson's presence.

"I am sorry," Thompson said. He turned to Poirot, and added, "The ministers have made their decision."

" _Mein Gott_ ," Maiwald said, clutching at Hastings' hand.

Hastings rested his head in his other hand with a long, drawn out sigh. "When?" he asked.

"Tomorrow morning," Thompson replied. "They wanted it to happen tonight, but I promised them that you would not escape."

"I won't," Hastings said, looking up at Thompson.

Thompson's attention lingering on Hastings, as if he were awaiting some other response, and when he did not receive the response he expected, he turned to leave. Poirot hurried after him, and caught up to him just outside of the front door.

"Is there no chance for him?" Poirot asked softly.

"I tried everything," Thompson replied, looking around to make sure that they were not being overheard. "The ministers decided that they already had enough German informers. He is just not needed unless he can be a proper spy."

"But his language skills, his experience-"

"He is not intelligent enough to crack code, and that's what we need," Thompson said bluntly. "I am sorry, but unless you can do better, there is nothing more to be done!"

Poirot returned to the sitting room; Hastings and Maiwald were arguing in German, and Ms. Lemon was watching them, the confusion clear on her face.

"They sound angry," Ms. Lemon said.

Poirot motioned with one hand, and said, "It is the German." After Hastings shouted an emphatic _nein, nein, nein_ , Poirot interjected. "Hastings?"

" _Mein Vater will, dass ich weglaufe._ "

" _En anglais_?"

Hastings sighed, and said, "My father wishes for me to run away."

"Not to run away," Maiwald said. "To escape! Surely Herr Thompson asked for your death to be delayed until tomorrow so that you would have time to escape."

"I gave him my word that I would not," Hastings replied.

"Hastings," Poirot interrupted. "This may be the only chance for you to survive."

"You are suggesting that I evade justice?" Hastings said in surprise.

Poirot shrugged and waved his hands in a helpless gesture of Gallic frustration. "Justice, perhaps, but it is not the justice for the ministers to be so stupid.'

Hastings looked uneasily between his father, Poirot, and Ms. Lemon. "I cannot," he replied softly. "I could escape, and in fact I believe that this is Thompson's intention, but if I escaped-"

"You would be alive, Arthur!"

"And what would happen to you, father?" Hastings said. "You are here as a guest of the British government. If I were to escape, you would be in danger. I do not doubt that they would punish you for aiding my escape."

"I do not care about myself-"

"I do!" Hastings interrupted. "I care about you. I abandoned my career as a spy so that I could bring you here where it is safer."

"I am the cause of your demise," Maiwald murmured, tears rising to his eyes.

"Oh, papa, you know that is not true," Hastings said, the dismay clear in his face. He embraced his father, who had started to sob. He rested his cheek on top of Maiwald's head, and held him close.

" _Zuerst deine Mutter und jetzt du_ ," Maiwald said, crying into his shoulder.

Hastings looked helplessly at Poirot and Ms. Lemon. Poirot hated that he could do nothing to help his friend or this man who had come to mean a great deal to him in so short a time. He nodded his head a bit, asking if Hastings wanted privacy. At Hastings' grateful look, he departed with Ms. Lemon into her office.

********************

I had not heard my father cry in this manner since my mother's death, and the sound brought back unpleasant memories. I held him close, kissing his hair and stroking his back.

" _Mein Papa, du musst tapfer sein für mich_." Father shook his head, and I said softly, " _Bitte, Papa, ich kann nicht tun, worum du mich gebeten hast, und zwar nicht nur wegen dir_." [My father, I need you to be brave. Please, Papa, I cannot do as you ask, and it is not only because of you."]

Father looked up, and I continued, " _Wenn ich aus Poirots Wohnung entkommen würde, würde ihn das in Schwierigkeiten bringen. Poirot ist wohlhabend und hat einflussreiche Freunde, aber er ist kein britischer Staatsbürger und hat folglich begrenzte Rechte. Er könnte ausgewiesen werden oder Schlimmeres, wenn er einem Spion helfen würde. Wenn tatsächlich ein Krieg heraufzieht, will ich ihn hier wissen. In Sicherheit._ " ["If I were to escape Poirot's flat, he would get into trouble. Poirot is wealthy and has powerful friends, but he is not a British citizen and thus has limited rights. He could be deported, or worse, because he helped a spy. If war is coming, then I want him here, safe."]

I smiled at father, who was still crying but silently, " _Du musst für mich auf ihn aufpassen, Papa. Ich liebe ihn sehr und ich werde nicht länger auf seine Gesundheit achten können, oder dafür sorgen, dass er genügend Bewegung bekommt. Du wirst doch auf ihn aufpassen, oder_?" ["I need to you watch over him, papa. I love him very much, and I will no longer be able to look after his health or see to it that he receives enough exercise. You will watch over him, won't you?"]

Father sniffled a little, and reluctantly nodded his head. " _Das werde ich, mein Sohn._ " ["I will do it, my son."]

His tears eventually ceased, although his frantic look never disappeared. Poirot and Ms. Lemon emerged from her office, and I looked at them gratefully.

"Shall we finish our game, papa?"

"I am not in the mood for games."

I sighed softly, and then a memory caught my attention. "You used to read – to mother and me. Will you read now?"

Father looked over at Poirot and then at Ms. Lemon, who both smiled encouragingly. "What do you want me to read?"

 

Father read several chapters from _Der Schatz im Silbersee_ by Karl May. It was one of my favorite boyhood novels, and no doubt influenced my own desire for adventure and excitement. Father took care to explain in English what was happening to our non-German audience. Ms. Lemon stayed past her usual hour, and when father decided to leave for the evening, Ms. Lemon offered to escort him to his hotel.

"I think he might like some company," she said, putting on her coat. I was standing with her in the hallway, and father was conversing with Poirot in the sitting room.

"Thank you," I said. "I am reluctant to let him leave, but-"

I was uncertain what I should say to Ms. Lemon because I was not sure how much she already knew about Poirot and myself or how she would react. She answered my unspoken questions, however, when she replied, "You and Poirot need time alone to say goodbye properly."

I nodded, and said, "Indeed."

She smiled, and said, "Good night, Captain Hastings. I shall see you in the morning." Her smile was decidedly watery, and I was becoming a bit emotional myself.

"Good night, Ms. Lemon."

My father offered me one last, lingering hug, and then departed with Ms. Lemon. I could see the tears in his eyes, and my own rose to the surface. I closed the door, and rested my forehead against the wood.

" _Mon ami_?" Poirot asked, resting a hand against my shoulder.

I shook my head, unable to speak without tears. My breath hitched; a few tears spilled down my cheeks as Poirot embraced me from behind. "Good lord, Poirot," I whispered. "I didn't know-"

I turned in his arms, and embraced him, holding him close. I pressed a kiss to his temple, and said, "I thought that I would die on an assignment, shot by another spy or an officer. I never considered that I would have to look into my father's eyes before I died."

Poirot shuddered, his arms tightening around me. We stayed that way for several minutes until Poirot stood back and took my elbow in his hand. He led me into the kitchen, and while I sat at the table and observed, he prepared a simple meal. The thought of food turned my stomach, but I knew that Poirot was comforted by the routine and took great pleasure in food and in cooking for others.

After dinner we sat on the settee, listening to music on the wireless whilst curled in each other's arms. We were silent for a time, each lost in our own thoughts. I was worried about my friends and my father, and yes, I shall admit that I was scared about what lay ahead tomorrow.

"You will not save yourself?" Poirot said softly.

I pressed a kiss to the top of his head, and replied, "No, I cannot."

Poirot nodded, and tilted his head so that he could look at me. He brushed a finger down my cheek, and said, "You are an honorable man, Hastings."

I smiled a little, although I did not feel any joy at his words. His own smile was weak, and we quickly abandoned inelegant words to other much more pleasant activities. I had never been a man of words; action suited me better, and I could say all that I wanted with a touch rather than a speech.

We made love in the sitting room that night. I knelt between his legs, and pleasured him to hardness with my mouth; then I straddled him, and lowered myself onto his erection. Our motions were hard and fast, and we exhausted ourselves in our desperation. We shared a glass of wine, and I watched Poirot smoke one of his little Russian cigarettes. We nuzzled and kissed, eventually moving to the bedroom.

Neither of us wished to sleep and waste a single moment on our last night together.

 

The morning was grey and windy. After a lingering shower, I stepped out of the bedroom to find Poirot engaged in a vigorous conversation on the telephone. I sat near him on his desk, letting my hand rest on his shoulder. He acknowledged my presence with a squeeze of my knee.

When he hung up the receiver, without preamble he said, "I am to meet with M. R- , the minister for foreign affairs." At my confused look, he said, "M. Thompson has been an advocate for you, Hastings, but he can only do so much. I will speak with M. R- myself."

"And you believe that you will succeed?" I asked, wanting to believe him but fearing that my hopes would be raised, only to be dashed again.

I hated the anguish in Poirot's dark eyes. "I hope so, _mon ami_ ," he said, his hand resting on my leg. "But it means that I must leave now, if I am to have the time."

"Yes, of course," I said, standing up. I took his hand, and when he stood, I kissed his palm. "I love you," I said, smiling at him.

Poirot returned my smile. "I love you, too."

I walked with him to the hallway, fighting my natural reservedness so that I might say what I needed to say. Poirot looked at me, the question clear in his expression.

"Poirot," I said softly, "if the worst should happen, know that these few days have been the happiest since I was a child. I cannot regret what I have done because it has brought me to you. I love you. You are everything to me. I-"

I was blushing too hard to continue. Poirot looked stunned, and then he kissed me again with such hungry desperation that I felt weakened in the knees. I clung to him, and responded with equal force.

When we parted, I saw a hint of tears in Poirot's eyes. "Your great heart, Hastings, it humbles me."

"That you love me, Poirot, humbles me," I smiled at him, although I could feel a scatter of tears down my own cheeks. I caressed his cheek, and said, "If, if the worst should happen, do not feel guilty. I have lived a full and exciting life… by the side of the world's greatest detective."

I could see the pride in Poirot's eyes even as he said, "You tease Poirot even now?"

"Especially now," I said, and I kissed him with all the love I could feel within me. "Go now," I said gently. "You will need time."

Poirot nodded, and reluctantly pulled away. I watched him take his hat and coat, and he turned to me one last time. "We shall see each other again, _mon cher_ , either this afternoon or beyond."

I allowed Poirot's religious beliefs to comfort me, although I did not believe as he did. I kissed him one last time, and then watched him hurry out of the door.

My father arrived soon after. He sat down next to me, and took my hand.

"Papa," I said softly.

"I will watch over him," he said softly.

"Thank you," I replied, wiping the tears from my cheeks.

"My brave boy," he said, voice faltering.

I rested my head in his lap, waiting for Thompson to arrive. My father's hand stroked my hair, calming me now as it had when I was a lad.

 

I was thankful when Ms. Lemon arrive before Thompson. I embraced her for several moments. I thanked her for being a good friend to both myself and Poirot, and I asked her to look after my father. She agreed, and kissed me on the cheek. I hated to see the tears in her eyes

When Thompson arrived, I was calm and prepared to meet my fate. My father insisted that he come with me, but I told him that he should stay and wait for word from Poirot. I did not wish for father to witness my execution, but father insisted that if he were to wait for word from Poirot, Poirot would go directly to Thompson.

We arrived at the gallows, and when asked, the guard said that there had been no word from Poirot. My father followed me as far as the hallway, and after one more hug, he kissed my other cheek, and let me go.

The guards took me to the room, and I felt a momentary panic when I saw the noose. Involuntarily I backed up, and the guards help me firm. I apologized to them, and ceased to move.

Thompson spoke to the hangman, and then turned to me. "I am sorry," he said. "We cannot delay any longer."

I nodded, reminding myself of my ancestors – German and English – and that I wanted to die with dignity. "I am ready," I replied.

I felt numb as they fitted the handcuffs, the bag, and finally the noose. I wished that they would hurry because each moment spent in this limbo loosened my resolve. The claustrophobia was worse than the sight of the noose, and I nearly asked them to shoot me rather than allow me to suffocate.

Everything seemed to slow while I waited, and what might have been a few seconds felt like minutes. I heard the click of the handle, and felt the floor give way beneath my feet. My last thoughts were of Poirot.

As I fell through the floor, I heard the telephone ring. Before I could fall completely, arms reached from behind, jerking us both painfully.

"Help me!" I heard Thompson cry out, and two more people grabbed me. "That's him. I know it's him," I heard Thompson murmur. "God help me; it had better be him."

Thompson released me, and the two guards stood me up. One grabbed the bag, and pulled it roughly from my head. The noose remained, as did my bound hands.

"Good god, you took your time," Thompson said. "He was half-way through the floor."

I sagged, faint with relief, as I heard the murmur of Poirot's accented voice through the phone. I was not sure what he said, but Thompson motioned for the guards to remove the noose while he listened to Poirot. The guards guided me to a nearby chair, and removed my handcuffs. Thompson ended the conversation, and then turned to me.

"It's over," he replied.

"Over?" I said, reaching up to my neck. Would they hang me again? "Please, I beg you. I'd rather you shoot me than put me in that rope one more time."

"What? No, my apologies. M. Poirot has made arrangements – I'm sure he must know some secrets – and you are free to go. Provisionally, of course."

"Of course…" I said. I was stunned by my good fortune. "My father! I must go to him. He will have heard the trapdoor open!"

Thompson nodded, and let me run ahead to where my father had been waiting. Father was sobbing into his hands, and I startled him by my shout of "papa."

"You're alive!"

"Yes," I said, hugging him tightly. "Poirot, he did it."

"Bless him!"

I was shaking after my brush with death, and so I leaned on my father quite heavily as we departed the building. The sun felt warmer as I stepped outside. I took a moment to appreciate the sunlight against my face. Thompson drove with us to Whitehaven, but declined an invitation to join us.

"I shall visit Monday with the terms of your freedom, but do not worry. There will be no surprises. You are free to come and go now as you please."

"Thank you," I said, shaking his hand.

The first person to greet us upon entering the flat was Ms. Lemon, who embraced me with enthusiasm. She was laughing and crying at the same time, and I shushed her, mussing up her hair as I absently stroked it to calm her.

When she released me, Poirot was next. We clung to each other, kissing and murmuring comforting words. I was finally home.

 

Epilogue:

The terms of my freedom were – as Thompson said – quite simple. If the ministry had any questions, or if I discovered anything of importance, I was to converse with them about whatever the matter happened to be. I was to avoid Germany for the time being, and I was to inform the ministry before attempting any travel abroad.

My father settled in an apartment near the university, and was happy to resume teaching. Unfortunately he had to accept a certain degree of anti-German sentiments, but for the most part, his friendly nature disarmed most of whom he met. Ms. Lemon would have tea with him at least once a week, and he would dine with Poirot and myself as often.

My relationship with Japp never recovered, and although he accepted that I was free and once more a participant in Poirot's investigations, he no longer trusted me. His hatred hurt, but I could expect nothing less. I was grateful, however, that his dislike of me did not interfere with Poirot's work for the police.

When the war started, Thompson found me quite useful and touted that fact to the ministers on a regular basis. I disliked that I was fighting against my own countrymen, but that was unavoidable. Poirot and I weathered the Blitz as best we could, and although Poirot chaffed at the food rationing, we were actually quite well off because of my assistance to the ministry.

Poirot and I survived much together, including two attempts on my life (one during the war), my father's grief at the destruction of Dresden, and the stress of being bombed. Additional grief followed the war when it became clear how difficult and unsafe returning to Dresden would be; my father remained a guest of the British empire.

I live now as Poirot's companion, his friend and lover, and I could not be happier. I do not miss the life of a spy. After all, life with Poirot and his mysteries is excitement enough.


End file.
